


All Our Strength and All Our Sweetness (Hands-Free)

by Laura Kaye (laurakaye)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Blindfolds, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Caretaking, Clint Feels, Clint gets what he wants AND what he needs, Cock Rings, Collars, Come Marking, Comeplay, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dog Cops, Dom Phil Coulson, Edging, Endearments, Face-Fucking, Fantasy Fulfillment, Fluff and Smut, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Held Down, Insecurity, Inspection, Kink Negotiation, Leather, M/M, Minor internalized kink shaming, Naked Male Clothed Male, Non-Sexual Submission, Obedience, Oral Sex, Orders, Orgasm Delay, Overstimulation, Pheels, Post-Coital Cuddling, Praise Kink, Public Display of Affection, Self-Acceptance, Sexual Roleplay, Sleepy Cuddles, Stress Relief, Sub Clint Barton, True Love, Use Your Words, reassurance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What I ought to do right now,” Phil breathed, “is step away, calm down, and have this conversation when I can think about something besides the way your mouth looks when you call me sir.”</p><p>“How about,” Clint said, darting his tongue out to lick his lips, “right now, you put me on my knees and fuck my face, and then we have that conversation in the morning.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying something a little different with the format; since this one is basically a series of sex scenes interrupted by conversations, I'm posting in short chapters.
> 
> Overall, this story is about Clint Barton getting comfortable with his own kinky desires through a lot of negotiation, emotional support, and hot sex. If that sounds like something you'd enjoy, then I hope you'll come along for the ride.
> 
> I'll update the tags as the story progresses.

See, the thing is, Clint's always been a freak. He learned it early on, when he realized that his family wasn’t like the ones on TV or even the ones next door, and the lesson was reinforced with every major development in his life; from a “troubled home life” to foster care, from the system to the circus, from the circus to the Army, from the Army to SHIELD. He’d always known that he was different from normal people, and he’d mostly decided he liked it that way. Sometimes being a freak meant free school lunch and bruises and holes in your shoes, but sometimes it meant shooting a target dead center from the back of a galloping horse. Sometimes it was sleeping in the horse trailer because that was the only way to get warm, but sometimes it was carrying off a mission without a hitch and going home knowing that you’d saved five thousand lives with a single arrow.

The fact that he'd somehow made it into SHIELD, that he'd been given a chance to do something good for the world for once, was more than he’d ever thought life would give him. That now he had even more—real friends, a partner who was like the other half of him, trust and respect and the chance to make something of his life—he owed to Phil Coulson. 

Agent Coulson had been the first person in his life who had ever looked at him and saw more than just a burden or a problem or a tool. As time had gone by and Agent Coulson had gone from Clint’s SO to his handler to his friend, it was probably inevitable that Clint would eventually fall in love with him. He'd always had a tendency to get attached.

What still surprised Clint every day of his life was that Coulson—Phil— loved him back. It's not that Clint was insensitive to his own charms; he did pay attention to his surroundings and he’d won "best ass in SHIELD" six of the last ten years. It's just that anything Clint had to offer, he knew that Phil could get elsewhere, from someone who didn’t come with the kind of baggage Clint was dragging along. But for whatever reason, Phil seemed to think that Clint was his best option (maybe he had an archery fetish, who knows) and Clint wasn't about to point out to him how he could be doing better. The way Clint saw it, he was already getting more than he deserved, and there was no reason not to do everything he could to hold onto Phil for as long as possible.

He'd always known you have to hold on to what you've got, Bon Jovi lyrics notwithstanding, because there's no guarantee you’d get any more if you let someone take it away from you.

How this all tied into sex, basically, is that while Clint had always liked it a little freaky in bed, he'd been reluctant to bring that into his relationship with Phil, because he had a _relationship with Phil,_ and that was enough. It wasn't that he thought Phil would be disgusted or anything like that; he was more worried that Phil would, like, break up with him for his own good because he couldn't meet all his needs or whatever. Clint couldn't guarantee that in that case he wouldn't completely humiliate himself begging, and not in the fun way. He didn’t really _need_ it, anyway; it wasn’t like he couldn’t come unless he was hanging by his toes while someone hit him with a bullwhip and sang _Yankee Doodle Dandy_. He just… liked it, sometimes, being able to let go. But if you put the possibility of that up against the reality of Phil, well, Phil would win every damn time.

It wasn't like Clint's more… esoteric needs were completely neglected, either. Phil was a passionate guy, for all he liked to put on his unassuming everyman act, and when they'd been apart for a while he tended to manhandle Clint a little, which was awesome. Clint made a point of telling him so every time it happened. Positive reinforcement; Clint learned about that in his SHIELD leadership class when he got promoted to Level Five.

The trouble with this, though, is that when they really got going it could be close enough to the way Clint wished it was that he forgot it wasn't real. 

 

<\-----<<<  >>>\----->

 

It was his first night home in three weeks and he was on a week of downtime; Phil had invited him to spend it at his place. Phil had gotten Indian takeout and Clint had stuffed himself with naan and chicken tikka and those little cheese balls soaked in honey and rosewater, and he'd barely pushed back from the table before Phil had pounced, crowding him up against the wall and kissing traces of honey from his lips. Clint had gone pliant, moving where Phil put him, moaning into his hard kisses and rolling his body against Phil's just enough to feel the weight and strength of him holding Clint in place. It was so good, a safe wall at his back and someone he trusted at his front. It was a good place to be, a safe place to let go. Phil set his teeth on the edge of Clint's jaw and Clint moaned, “Please, sir, please.”

He froze the minute the words were out of his mouth, but it was too late; he could feel Phil tense a little, his body going from languid heat to poised attention as he pulled back enough to look Clint in the eye. Clint felt himself flushing under that look.

"Clint?"

"Sorry," Clint said, trying to sound nonchalant though his heart was pounding. "Nothing. Slip of the tongue."

“I understand it can be difficult to transition out of work mode—” Phil began, but Clint couldn't hold back a laugh, even for the sake of taking the out.

"Trust me, that's not a problem," he said.

Phil narrowed his eyes, that big brain of his working now that it was presented with an anomaly. 

"It's really nothing," Clint said hastily. He rubbed a hand up Phil's chest, being sure to brush a nipple on the way. "Why don't we get back to what we were doing?"

Phil lifted his hand, moving slowly so Clint could see what was happening, and traced gently over the faint healing bruise on Clint's cheekbone where a bad guy had gotten in a lucky hit. Clint shivered at the touch, enough to feel but not enough to hurt. Phil's hand continued on its path, brushing through Clint's hair to the back of his neck, then suddenly gripped tight, holding him like a scruffed kitten. He couldn't bite back a little moan at the feeling of being held like that.

"But what," said Phil, "if I want it to be something?"

Clint stared at him, mouth dry, pants tightening so fast he was dizzy with it. He was about fifty percent convinced that he’d fallen asleep after dinner and this was an especially good dream. Another forty-nine percent thought that he was misunderstanding what Phil was saying and this would all end in tears. But Clint grew up in the circus, he hunted monsters with a bow and arrow, and he’d always been a daredevil at heart, so he took a deep breath, shaking with his own audacity, and went with the one percent.

"In that case," he managed to say, "then it's whatever you want it to be. Sir.”

Phil’s eyes slid shut, just for a moment, and he drew in a deep, shuddery breath. “What I ought to do right now,” he breathed, “is step away, calm down, and have this conversation when I can think about something besides the way your mouth looks when you call me that.”

Clint’s heart had stuttered when Phil said “step away,” but by the end of the sentence it had picked up again, beating wildly. He felt almost light-headed with possibility; the last thing he wanted to do was talk.

“How about,” he said, darting his tongue out to lick his lips, “right now, you put me on my knees and fuck my face, and then we have that conversation in the morning.”

Phil’s hand clenched on Clint’s neck, but his face stayed calm. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, trying to put all his desperate sincerity in his voice, in his eyes. “Please, sir.”

Phil breathed out, hard, and then the hand on Clint’s neck was pressing down. He sank beneath it, folding to his knees in a single motion, eyes never leaving Phil’s face. He was so close he could feel Phil’s body heat through his clothes.

“Then that’s what I’ll give you,” Phil said. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

Clint couldn’t have stopped listening if a bomb had gone off in the room. “Yes, sir.”

“If you say stop, we stop. If you can’t talk and you want to stop, poke my leg with your finger, and we stop. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said. “We stop if I say. Poke your leg if I can’t talk.” 

“Very good, Clint,” Phil said, and there was something warm in his voice that seemed to wrap all around Clint like a blanket. “Now take my cock out and make sure I’m ready to fuck you with it.”

Phil sounded amazing, like the way he sounded when he gave orders on missions but better, something rich and raw and unfettered in his voice. If Clint hadn't spent most of his life training his hands steady, he thought they would have trembled as he slid the supple, skin-warm leather of Phil’s belt through the buckle. Phil was in his suit pants and shirt, tie off, sleeves rolled up, a combination of Clint’s dirtiest work fantasies and the comfort of their actual relationship. He didn’t bother with trying to get Phil out of his pants, just opened the fly and shoved Phil’s underwear down so he could get to his cock. It was beautiful, he thought; all flushed satiny skin and mostly hard already. Clint wasted no time getting it in his mouth. He gave a couple of good hard sucks, and it pulsed and grew, getting heavier on his tongue as he bobbed his head, licking at the salty tip. He was really starting to get into a rhythm, bracing his hands on Phil’s hips, when Phil pushed him away a little, letting his cock slide out of Clint’s mouth with a dirty, wet noise.

“S-sir?” he asked, worried that he’d done something wrong. He wasn’t even doing the “sir” thing on purpose anymore, it just seemed like the right thing to do, like some kind of fundamental law of nature; Phil was in charge, so he was Sir. He was Sir, and he was in charge, and he'd make sure Clint knew what to do.

“It’s okay, Clint,” Phil said roughly, running one hand through his hair. Petting him. He liked it way more than he probably should. “You did a good job getting me ready, but I promised you something. Do you remember?”

He remembered. He’d remember on his deathbed, he thought. “To… to fuck my face, sir.”

“Yes. Good job,” Phil said again, and Clint basked in it, even as a distant part of himself was thinking how stupid he was being. “I promised to fuck your face, and I will always keep my promises to you, as far as I have it in my power. Is that still what you want?”

“Yes, sir, please,” Clint said, and Phil soothed him with another of those pets.

“Then just relax, Clint, and let me take care of you,” Phil said. Clint dropped his hands, let his jaw fall slack, and Phil took hold of his head, one careful hand on either side of his jaw, and pulled him forward until his lips just brushed Phil’s cockhead.

“You remember what to do if you want to stop?” Phil asked.

“Poke you,” Clint said, his whole body longing to move forward, but Phil was holding him still.

“Very good, Clint,” Phil said, and then, “just relax for me, baby,” and he pulled Clint’s open mouth onto his cock, slow and easy. Clint kept his jaw loose, his lips and tongue soft, trying to make a nice wet place for Phil to fuck. Phil’s hands on his face were steady and sure, guiding him with just enough pressure, not painful but impossible to ignore. He sped up, eventually, letting his cock nudge the back of Clint’s throat, and Clint moaned around him, making Phil’s hands clench a little tighter behind his jaw. 

Clint had let his eyes drift shut, and now he felt the last of his tension ease, slipping into the kind of calm, focused mental space he went to when he was practicing his shooting. He moved where Phil put him, lips and tongue and throat all there for Phil to use, there to give Phil pleasure, and as Phil started fucking him in earnest he felt simultaneously so hard he thought he’d burst and deeply relaxed. He thought maybe he could just stay there forever, rocked between Phil’s hands and his cock, smelling Phil’s scent and feeling his grip and hearing the little grunt of breath that Phil made every time he bottomed out in Clint’s throat. He was distantly aware of Phil setting up a pattern, each deep, long thrust that set Clint swallowing around him to keep from gagging followed by three hard shallow ones across Clint’s tongue that let him gasp for breath. Clint wasn’t sure how long they’d been going, but eventually he felt a hitch in the pattern, Phil speeding up, and then Phil’s cock twitched and pulsed and spilled into his mouth, over his tongue and running out the corners, and Clint swallowed a little when it hit the back of his throat but didn’t concern himself too much with anything else, because Phil had said _relax_ and he hadn’t said to stop relaxing yet. Phil didn’t pull away fast, but guided Clint’s head to rest on his hip, cock still in Clint’s soft mouth until it shrunk enough to slip back out. Clint heard himself make a sad little noise, but Phil started petting his hair again, soothing, and he was telling Clint that he was good, he was so good, he was perfect for Phil and made Phil so happy, and Clint was warm and safe and cared for and he never wanted to leave.

After a few seconds or maybe a few minutes, Clint wasn’t keeping track of time just then, Phil knelt down next to Clint, tucking Clint up next to him and brushing kisses over his ear.

“Listen, baby, okay?” Phil asked. Clint managed an interrogatory hum and was rewarded with another kiss. “You’re doing so well, Clint. Do you want to come now?”

Clint thought about it, and suddenly the distant burn of his arousal was sharp and clear and present again, and he was desperate to come, his balls tight and swollen and aching, his cock strangling behind the zipper of his jeans. “Please,” he managed, “sir, _please,_ ” and that was all it took for Phil to move, making soothing noises in his ear between kisses, quick and clever hands freeing Clint from his jeans. The first touch of skin on skin was so good Clint cried out, and it only took a few strokes from Phil’s warm, rough fingers to have Clint shooting out, between Phil’s fingers, all over the polished wood floor.

Clint was _gone_ after that, stumbling and stupid and limp with release, and he would have passed out right there in the living room if Phil hadn’t gathered him up, steered him into the bedroom, and washed the come off his face and groin with a warm cloth. Phil put him into his pajama pants and straight up tucked him into bed, keeping up a steady stream of praise the whole time that Clint drank up like desert ground. When Phil finally got into bed beside him, Clint had just enough awareness left to turn over and curl around him, clinging, and the last thing he felt as he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep was Phil’s hand petting his hair.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Clint talk, despite Clint's best efforts. But at least a) it's sexy talk and b) there's bacon.

Clint woke up slowly, gradually becoming aware of the feel of warm, fluffy blankets, the golden spill of morning light across the bed. He stretched luxuriously, his body loose and content, and his eyes fluttered open to see Phil sitting up in bed next to him, wearing his glasses and working quietly on his tablet.

“Hey,” Clint said, nudging lazily at Phil’s leg with a toe, then the memory of the night before came sweeping over him and he froze. Had he really said those things out loud?  

Phil looked over and smiled. “Good morning,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

****“Worried,” Clint blurted, then immediately wished he could take it back, because Phil would never, ever let something like that go.

Phil reached toward him, stopping just short of touching. He rested his hand on the quilt between them, palm up, inviting. “Can you tell me what’s worrying you?”

Clint took his hand, relaxing a little when Phil immediately intertwined their fingers. “I think you can probably guess. I kind of fell apart on you last night.”

Phil squeezed his hand. “That wasn’t how I saw it.”

“Oh?”

“I saw a person that I care about trusting me with something important.” He looked and sounded completely sincere.

“It sounds a lot better when you say it like that,” Clint said.

“That’s the way I think of it,” Phil said.

“Still, though,” Clint said. “I appreciate you, um. Going along with it.” He sat up, pulling his knees up to his bare chest. He left the hand Phil was holding in place, but wrapped his other arm around his knees. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“Why not?”

Clint shot him an incredulous look. “Come on, Phil. People don’t sleep with someone like me because they want to do all the work.”

Phil frowned. “By ‘people’ I hope you mean ‘assholes I have slept with in the past and who clearly did not deserve my time or attention,’ because otherwise I’m afraid I might take offense.”

Clint stared at him, unable to think of anything to say in response to that.

“Clint.” Phil rubbed at his forehead, but the fingers of his other hand kept stroking gently over Clint’s skin. “Last night was incredible for me. What we did felt amazing physically, of course, but that wasn’t even the best part about it.”

“I bet you wish you could shut me up like that at work.”

“That’s not at all what I mean,” Phil said, unruffled. “What made it so good for me was that you had a need—”

“I don’t _need_ it.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “You had a desire, then. And you expressed that desire to me, and you trusted me enough to let me try and fulfill it. You allowed me to care for you while you were physically and emotionally vulnerable. You placed your considerable strength in my hands.” He gestured at Clint with his free hand. “Clint. There are so many times when you’re in the field, depending on my intel and support for your safety, maybe even your life, and I can never be certain that what I’m giving you is enough. Last night, you gave me a chance to take care of you and know that you were safe and satisfied. It was a gift. And if you never want to do anything similar again, I will treasure the memory of that gift. But if you do want more, if it’s something you need or want or just enjoy sometimes, then don’t give it up because it’s not something you think you should have.”

Phil had gotten more and more animated as he spoke, gesturing sharply with his free hand. By the end of his speech, he was actually a little flushed; Clint looked over at his bright eyes and mussed hair and felt a wave of fondness that almost hurt. He had no doubt that Phil meant every word he was saying, and deep inside, he felt a furtive thrill of hope.

“Okay, Phil,” he said at last, and unfolded himself a little, leaning over into Phil’s shoulder. “Okay.”

Phil tipped his head, resting it against Clint’s. “Sorry,” he said, sounding a little sheepish. “Obviously, I feel rather strongly about the subject.”

“I can tell.” Clint was quiet for a few minutes, letting himself calm down, just feeling Phil beside him. Every so often, Phil would turn his head and kiss Clint’s temple; for once, Clint let himself sit still and enjoy it.

“So,” he said at last, “is there a particular reason you had that speech all ready to go?”

“I imagine you can tell that there is,” Phil said. “But it’s kind of a long story. How about I tell it over breakfast?”

“Only if there’s bacon,” Clint said.

“You’re going to be here all week,” Phil said. “I bought five pounds of bacon.” 

“It’s like you know me,” Clint said. He untangled himself reluctantly from Phil and pulled on a shirt before padding barefoot out to the kitchen. The coffee machine had already finished the first pot, because Phil was a brilliant man who, even after having sex up against the wall of the breakfast nook, did not forget to set the timer for the next day. He reached for the pot.

“Use a mug, Barton,” Phil said from behind him, and in the spirit of not lying to himself quite so blatantly as before, Clint had to admit that the firm note in Phil’s voice gave him a pleasurable little thrill down his back.

“If you insist,” he said. His voice came out a lot huskier than he was expecting, and he darted a look at Phil, hoping he wasn’t being too blatant. Phil smiled at him, and it was stupid how much better that made Clint feel.

Phil reached around him, pressing the length of his body against Clint’s back in a move that Clint was fairly sure was not accidental, and pulled two mugs down from the cabinet.

“Would you mind fixing me a cup as well?” he asked.

“Sure thing, boss,” Clint said without thinking, then felt his face go hot. Phil, blessedly, didn’t comment on his slip, but he gave Clint’s ass a firm pat as he pulled away to go get the bacon out of the fridge. 

Neither of them talked much as they made breakfast, communicating mostly with glances and gestures. The simple routines of cooking were comfortingly normal, and Clint felt more settled by the time they sat down to eat, though he did position himself so he wasn’t facing the wall that Phil had fucked him against.

“So,” he said at last, crunching on a piece of perfectly crisp bacon. “You were going to tell me your deep dark secrets.”

“They’re not particularly deep or dark,” Phil said, shrugging. “About ten years ago, I had a fairly serious relationship with a woman.”

“Wait, was this the one I met that time when we ran into each other in the restaurant? Tall, wavy brown hair? Um… Molly?”

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Phil said, and Clint shrugged; he didn’t want to go into all the reasons why he’d paid so much attention to what Phil looked for in a date (or dwell much on why, after what mostly seemed to be a string of willowy, doe-eyed brunette women, Phil had taken up with a stocky blond man.)

“Anyhow, yes,” Phil continued, “that was Molly, though I’m sure I don’t have to ask you to be discreet about this information.”

Clint nodded his agreement; he knew better than to run his mouth about things like that. 

Phil smiled at him. “She was heavily involved in the local kink community and identified as a submissive, but I didn't know about that at first; we had met at a comics convention. She didn’t bring it up until we’d been seeing each other for several months. At the time, I only knew about that sort of thing secondhand—things I’d read or heard, concepts from popular culture; you know the sort of thing.” 

Clint nodded. “Whips and chains, leather corsets, that kind of stuff.”

“Right. Molly told me a little about what she liked to do, and asked me if I would consider learning more about it, to see if I’d potentially be interested in incorporating it into our relationship.”

Clint frowned. “So, wait. If she was so into…” he waved his hand around vaguely, not yet comfortable with the specialized terms Phil had used, “…all that, why did she go looking for love at a comic convention? Wouldn’t it have been easier to look for someone in the, you know, _community_ or whatever?”

“Probably,” Phil said. “But, well. Feelings aren’t always logical. We met standing in line for an autograph, and spent the whole wait talking. Neither of us had been looking for a relationship, but we hit it off so well, it seemed a shame not to try.”

Phil smiled, wistful, and Clint tried very hard not to let his jealousy show on his face.

“So,” he said, voice tight, “you found amazing nerd love, and then she wanted to get kinky. Sounds like a match made in heaven.”

Phil looked up sharply, then shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he said. His shoulders slumped, just a little, and Clint felt like a heel.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching across the table to take Phil’s hand. “I’m still kind of fucked up about this, so I’m being shitty to you, but you don’t deserve that.”

Phil gave his fingers a little squeeze. “I’m obviously not telling this right, if I’m making you feel threatened,” he said. “It’s… not something I’ve ever talked about with anyone who didn’t already know.”

Clint nodded. “So what I should have said was, it sounds like things were going well, so what happened?”

“I agreed to give it a try,” Phil said, and Clint would bet his bow that “giving it a try” had included at least a week of exhaustive research and no fewer than two dates that were better planned than most military operations.

“And?”

“I loved it,” Phil said simply. “It was like finding a part of myself I’d been chasing for most of my life. Molly ended up introducing me to her friends, and we spent a lot of time in those circles for the rest of our relationship. I still keep in contact with a few of the people I met then.”

“I hesitate to say this now, but I actually mean it this time,” Clint said. “If you loved the kinky stuff, and you had so much in common, why didn’t it last?”

“Same reasons any SHIELD agent’s relationship ends, I guess,” Phil said. “I spent too much time traveling for work, I couldn’t share any details about what I was doing. She deserved a partner who could be there for her full time.”

“I’m sorry, Phil.”

He shook his head a little. “We parted friends,” he said. “She’s happily married now, with two kids. We send each other Christmas cards. But I’ll always be thankful to her for helping me discover that part of myself.”

Clint pictured the two of them as he’d seen them, out to dinner in a moderately fancy restaurant that Nat had made him take her to. (He’d lost a bet.) They’d looked like movie stars or something, Phil in one of his beautiful suits, a dark blue that brought out his eyes, and Molly sleek and expensive in a forest green silk dress, emerald drops in her ears. He’d tortured himself for weeks, months, picturing them going to art museums or the opera, drinking wine; classy dates for classy people, a world away from the sawdust and stink of the circus. Now his imagination, fed by a mountain of fetish porn, was conjuring up some very different images. Had she gone on her knees for Phil, let him fuck her face like Clint had? Had she wanted Phil to spank her, or fill her with plugs or toys? Had he tied her up and made her come over and over until she was red-faced and shaking? Clint shifted in his seat, his cock twitching.

“I know this is probably against the rules, but I really wanna ask you what you did with her,” he blurted.

“Those aren’t just my secrets to tell,” Phil said. “But I’d be happy to tell you more about what I learned that I liked to do, both then and afterward, on one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“I know you aren’t very comfortable talking about this,” he said. “But I would very much appreciate it if you would tell me more about what you do and don’t like. I can’t do much to meet your needs if I don’t know what they are.”

“So formal,” Clint said, making his tone stay light. “Is this an official debrief, sir?”

Phil didn’t take the bait, just gave him a steady, considering look. “Would it help if it were?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Clint admitted, and Phil smiled.

“We can think of it like that, then,” he said. “It’s for much the same purpose, after all: finding out what worked well, what could be improved on, and using that data to plan future operations.” 

Clint grinned, feeling a flush of happiness at _future operations_. “Well then, sir,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “By all means, please debrief me.”

“You’re incorrigible, Barton,” Phil said affectionately. 

They ended up piling the breakfast dishes in the sink and taking their “debrief” to the couch, which was big enough for Clint to curl up against Phil without anyone’s legs hanging off. It was Clint’s favorite position for talking, because he didn’t have to look at Phil while he talked but he could still feel Phil’s arms around him, his solid chest behind him, supporting him.

“I’ll start,” Phil offered, and Clint nodded gratefully against his shoulder. “First, successes,” and Clint chuckled, because that was literally the way that Phil started every mission debrief. He could feel himself relaxing further, the familiarity of it a comfort.

“The first thing, and the most important, was that you allowed me to know what you wanted, and you trusted me to give it to you. I could tell that was hard for you.”

Clint nodded, and took a deep breath. It was his turn to say a success now; that was how these worked. “I, um. I liked when you… moved me around. Put me where you wanted me.” Phil rubbed his chest, and Clint remembered to breathe.

“Yes, you were beautiful that way,” Phil agreed. Clint bit down the impulse to argue with him.

“I loved it when you asked me for what you wanted,” Phil said. “Especially when you called me sir.” 

“Does this mean you think it’s sexy when I do it at work?” Clint joked.

“Only a little,” Phil said, deadpan. Clint elbowed him gently.

“I…” He paused, and Phil kissed the back of his ear. “It was good when you told me, you know. That I was doing good.” He cleared his throat. “I know it’s dumb, but when I get like that, I just… I really need to know if I’m doing it right.”

“That’s not dumb,” Phil said. “It’s completely natural and understandable. I’m glad that’s something that works for you, because I really liked doing it.”

Clint covered Phil’s hand on his chest with his, but didn’t say anything. Phil’s words made him feel squirmy, not in a sexy way but not necessarily in a bad way either, and he wasn’t really sure what to do with it.

“I hope I have already told you this,” Phil continued, “but I feel it’s worth repeating; that blowjob was spectacular.”

Clint laughed, feeling himself relax a bit at the focus turning back to the physical stuff. “That works out, then, because you’ve got amazing hands.”

“I was a little worried you’d feel cheated.”

“Nah, it was perfect. I was so worked up by that point, I didn’t want anything more involved.” A thought struck him. “Hey, did I get come on the floor?”

Even though he couldn’t see it, he swore he could feel Phil’s smirk. “I took care of it,” he said. “This time.” Clint’s porn expertise popped up again, and he wondered what Phil would do to take care of it next time. The possibilities were more exciting than he would have predicted.

“So,” Phil said, interrupting the happy little mental trip Clint had been taking to Porn Land, “areas where there is potential for improvement, or things we didn’t get to this time that we’d like to try in the future.” Clint can’t help tensing up again, and Phil gives him a reassuring little squeeze.

“I would feel more comfortable next time if we did a bit more planning about what we want to do,” Phil said. “Of course, there’s something to be said for spontaneity, but I prefer to work from an established baseline.” 

“You can establish my baseline anytime,” Clint said, waggling his eyebrows. So what if Phil couldn’t see them; it came through in his tone.

“You know what I mean, Barton,” Phil said, but his voice was fond. “So what would you improve?”

“Well, I’d like to actually get my pants off next time,” he said breezily. Phil made a considering little noise that, Clint knew from experience, meant something along the lines of “I know there’s more to it than that, Barton, but I’ll let it go for now.”

“I think that one’s well within reach,” he said out loud.

 

>>>——-> <——-<<<

 

They had sex again that evening after supper. It was mostly just sweet, regular, relationship sex, slow and gentle and full of kisses, though Phil was a little grabbier than normal, and Clint was relieved that no matter what else was happening between them, they hadn’t lost that. The next day, Phil went down to the storage unit and came back with several boxes, which turned out to contain a small library of kinky reference books (which, hah! Clint knew it) and a modest collection of high-quality sex toys.

“I can’t believe you were keeping all this in your storage unit,” he blurted. Phil, unbelievably, flushed, the tips of his ears going pink and the tiny freckles on his cheekbones standing out.

“I moved them down there before the first time you came over,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to freak you out.”

Clint was oddly touched. It was nice, knowing that Phil wasn’t always a hundred percent confident and in control. It was good to know Clint wasn’t the only one who worried sometimes.

“Shame,” he said, giving Phil his best leer. “Think of all the sexcapades we could have had.”

“Never say ‘sexcapades’ again,” Phil said.

“You gonna punish me if I do?” Clint flexed a little; he knew how to play to his strengths.

“Is that something you want?” Phil asked. His face was open and sincere, and Clint found himself, as always, utterly disarmed by it.

“Not really,” he admitted, dropping his eyes. “Had enough of that in non-sexy contexts.”

“Just as well,” Phil said, matter-of-fact. “I can do it, if it’s something my partner is into, but it isn’t something I need. I tend towards positive reinforcement.” He leaned in and brushed a gentle finger across Clint’s cheekbone; swiping away some dust from one of the boxes, probably. Clint smiled at him, a little helplessly, and thought about _positive reinforcement._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Phil and Clint do a scene on purpose this time.


	3. Positive Reinforcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I used to have this, um. Fantasy, I guess. I’d just finished training and you came into the locker room right as I was coming out of the showers…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been terribly remiss in not thanking my amazing betas, Schuyler, Allecto, and thegirlthatisclumsy!! Ladies, this story would not be what it is without you!

If you’d asked Clint a few weeks before, he’d have said that he’d rather let ants eat his scrotum than have a detailed conversation about how he liked to be bossed around in bed and how he felt about it. Somehow, though, over the course of the week, he found himself telling Phil things, like _sometimes I like it when I have to wait to come_ and _I love being more naked than you are_ and _maybe you could jerk off on me one time,_ and then Phil would say something kind or sexy, or he’d kiss Clint hotly or grope his ass a little, or he’d rub Clint’s shoulders or stroke his hair. Sometimes he’d just give Clint one of those bright, sincere smiles and say something like _thank you for trusting me with that, it sounds amazing_ or _I appreciate you sharing that with me, we’ll have to try it some time._ It ought to have sounded like one of the SHIELD mandatory therapists, but instead it made Clint feel like a hero.

He supposed that was what Phil meant by _positive reinforcement._

Anyhow, by the second-to-last night of Clint’s week off, they’d apparently talked enough that Phil now felt comfortable trying to get kinky again, on purpose this time—a scene, he called it, and though Clint was still kind of uncomfortable with the specialized terms, he did see Phil’s point about familiarizing yourself with the standard nomenclature. They’d planned it out like it was one of their ops, and Clint wondered if everyone did it that way or only professional secret agents, but he didn’t ask Phil; he kind of liked all the planning and didn’t want to make Phil think it was, like, making him uncomfortable or anything.

Uncomfortable in his pants, maybe, to sit there at the kitchen table while Phil said things like, “would you prefer if I restrained you with something, or would you rather I just hold you down this time?” and then made honest-to-god notes on a yellow legal pad when Clint had to clear his throat three times before he managed to say, “hold me down.”

They ate dinner early and light, which was just as well; Clint’s stomach was churning with nerves and he only managed to eat about half. They’d agreed to start after they ate.

_(“I don’t think I can just… start,” Clint had admitted. “Before it was always more a heat of the moment thing. It feels weird to think about doing it on purpose.”_

_“Do you think it would help if we had some kind of… transitional activity, to help you get into the mindset? A massage, maybe, or a shower?”)_

Phil cleared the dishes off the table, then came back to crouch in front of Clint, laying one hand lightly on his forearm. “We don’t have to do this if you aren’t ready.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” Clint shrugged. “Nerves, I guess.”

Phil smiled. “I’ve heard a nice hot shower is good for that.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “You’re not subtle, Coulson.” He dropped a quick, fierce kiss on Phil’s mouth and stood, making sure to put some extra swagger in his walk on the way to the bathroom.

_(“I used to have this, um. Fantasy, I guess. I’d just finished training and you came into the locker room right as I was coming out of the showers…”)_

He took his time in the shower, letting the pounding hot water relax him as he soaped and scrubbed. When he was done, he was pink all over, skin tingling pleasantly. He’d gotten a semi in the shower, but he’d kept his hands off except to wash; he had something better coming.

Phil had left him a stack of towels on the closed toiled lid. They weren’t his usual bath towels (which were fluffy and misty gray), but the white, slightly rough, bought-by-the-pound sort of towels you got in gyms and public pools. In fact—Clint checked—these were actually SHIELD gym towels, the logo stamped along one hem. He wondered idly if Phil was a habitual towel thief or if he’d somehow procured them especially for this purpose. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had.

He wrapped one around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom, scrubbing his hair with the other as he made his way down the hall to the bedroom. His heart was pounding.

“Agent Barton.”

He dropped his towel, looking up. Phil had changed his jeans and sweater for one of his work suits—one of his nicest work suits, one of the ones he wore on days when he was meeting with VIPs—and looked brisk and businesslike and every inch Agent Coulson. He was even wearing his badge. Clint’s cock twitched behind his towel.

“Sir.” He nodded. “Need me for something?”

Phil just _looked_ at him, that laser focus he got sometimes. Clint felt goosebumps break out across his shoulders. “I do, Barton,” he said at last. “Come here.” He gestured to a spot about two feet in front of him, and Clint walked forward until Phil ordered him to stop.

“What do you—”

“Did I tell you to speak?” Phil cut him off sharply, and he shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth.

“Better,” Phil said. “The only words I want to hear from you are ‘yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, and he didn’t look down, but he was pretty sure his boner was on the verge of escaping completely from the towel.

Phil’s expression softened, and he leaned in for a soft kiss. “You’re doing really well,” he said, quiet but intense. “You know what to do if you need to stop?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, and he couldn’t help licking his lip where Phil had kissed it. He had safewords, now. Phil had been very insistent.

“Good,” Phil said, and then he stepped back, face going back to its bland mask. 

“I heard that you injured yourself during training, Agent,” he said.

“N—” he caught himself, just in time. “Sir?”

Phil shot him an approving little nod. “Don’t bother denying it, Barton,” he said. “I need to see for myself. Hold out your hands.”

Clint extended his hands, palm up. He wasn’t exactly sure where Phil was going with this—they hadn’t planned out everything, just the broad outlines—but he had high hopes.

Phil nodded his approval, then bent to inspect Clint’s hands, lifting them up in his own one after the other. He ran his fingers over Clint’s joints like he was checking for swelling, felt every inch of skin as though checking for hidden abrasions, brought them close to his face so that Clint could feel his warm breath on his palms. There was nothing overtly sexual about it, but by the time Phil was finished with the palm side and turned Clint’s hands over to look at the backs, Clint was nearly trembling with the urge to step forward, to grab Phil and kiss him or grope him or even just hug him—something, anything to get those warm hands touching him somewhere else.

He could do it. He knew he could, and if he said the right word beforehand Phil wouldn’t even scold him for it. Phil would fuss over him like he’d done before, maybe, but then he’d let Clint kiss him and they would have regular sex the way they normally did. 

Phil brushed a kiss over the back of Clint’s left hand. “Good job, Barton,” he said, and the combination of the kiss and Phil’s attaboy-agent voice was unexpectedly, stupidly hot. “I’m going to move you, now. Please stay where I put you.”

He looked up. Phil was still keeping a straight face, but his eyes were dilated and he was breathing faster than normal. He looked turned on, and a quick glance downward confirmed it, Phil’s hardening cock ruining the line of his pants, the bulge peeking out between the edges of his jacket.

Clint swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“I’m glad to see you taking care of your hands,” Phil said, lowering Clint’s right arm to hang by his side and raising his left, out to the side and shoulder-high. He ran his hands over Clint’s arms, feeling the lines of the bones, tracing the edges of his muscles. It should have been soothing; it was, a little, but the brushes of Phil’s jacket sleeve as he touched Clint’s naked skin somehow made it sexy, too.

“Your arms and hands are very important,” Phil continued, raising the other arm to mirror the first, so that Clint was posed like that huge-ass statue of Jesus in Rio. (He’d shot a guy at that statue on one of his first missions with Phil.)

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, as Phil repeated his inspection on the other arm. Phil patted his bicep.

“It’s not just for your shooting, either.” Phil crossed around behind him, and started tracing over the heavy muscles of Clint’s shoulders. 

“Sir?”

“So many other things you can do with them,” Phil said, and Clint could feel the heat of his body and the brush of his tie as he leaned in and kissed the meat of one shoulder, then bit down in the same place—not hard enough to break skin, or even to hurt that much, but Clint jerked in surprise all the same, then couldn’t hold back a moan as Phil sucked on the spot. When he finally pulled back, it was wet from his mouth and tingling and seemingly wired directly into Clint’s dick. 

_(“You could leave marks, if you wanted. I like that sometimes. Remembering.”)_

“So many ways to touch,” Phil said. “Beautiful and strong.”

Clint kind of wanted to argue—his arms were covered in calluses and scars and a farmer’s tan and not exactly what anyone would call beautiful—but Phil had said he could only say “yes, sir,” so he kept silent.

Phil continued down Clint’s back, keeping his touch firm enough not to tickle, occasionally finding a tense spot and massaging it a little. It felt good, but also weird, because it was making him feel relaxed and heavy but horny at the same time, and finally he gave up trying to figure out what Phil was going to do, shifted his feet a little apart to make his stance more stable, and just let it happen.

Phil let out a little huff of breath, right up in the curve of his lower back. “Good, Clint, very very good,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “That’s it, don’t try to anticipate. Just relax, follow my lead. I’ll take care of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint breathed, and Phil lifted up his towel to press another sucking, biting kiss onto the swell of his left asscheek, then dropped the towel again, giving it a pat. Clint couldn’t hold back a little noise of disappointment—he wanted that towel _gone_ —and Phil ran a soothing hand down the length of his back.

“Patience, Agent,” he said.

Clint took a deep, steadying breath. He could change things up at any time, he knew, but then he wouldn’t get to find out what Phil had planned.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

He heard a rustle of cloth and felt a shift in the air behind him; Phil crouching, he thought, and then he felt that warm, calloused touch on the back of one knee.

“If I lift your foot, will you be able to balance? You can say whatever you want to answer me,” Phil said.

Clint couldn’t hold back a disdainful noise—what part of _raised in the circus_ was Phil forgetting?—but he kept it out of his tone. “If I don’t move anywhere else, I can hold it as long as you don’t actively try to unbalance me,” he said.

“I’m not disparaging your skills, Clint,” Phil said. “But I know there’s a difference between what we can do in the field and what we want to do for fun. Endurance, testing your limits, those can be part of what we do in bed, but not to the point that it hurts you.”

“I won’t let you hurt me,” Clint said.

“Please don’t.” Phil stroked Clint’s calf, tracing the line of his Achilles tendon, up and down. “I don’t ever want to make you fall.”

Clint swallowed. He was pretty sure they weren’t just talking about sex games. When Phil lifted his foot, he relaxed into it, shifted his stance minutely to compensate, and let his breathing deepen and slow. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Thank you.” Phil’s fingers ran over his foot, firm enough not to tickle, honing in on the little sore spots and massaging them. Even balanced on one foot with his arms outstretched, Clint felt himself relaxing still further, making a happy little humming sound. 

“That’s good,” Phil murmured, giving his foot a little squeeze before putting it down and picking up the other one. “I like to hear how I’m making you feel.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, sighing a little as those warm fingers worked on another achy spot.

“You put these feet through a lot, Agent,” Phil said, his voice a mixture of Agent Coulson and Phil, not soft like it had just been, but warm and kind. “Part of the job, I know, but it’s important to take care of them.”

“Yes, sir.” He was still naked except for the towel, but he was starting to feel warm all over, the slight burn in his arms and tremble in his supporting leg somehow morphing into the ache in Clint’s dick and the twinge and release of Phil’s massage and the drag of his calluses on Clint’s skin.

“I’m honored that you allow me to help you do that,” Phil said, which was just weird, right? That was weird, because surely Clint was the one in this situation who was supposed to be honored and grateful. Maybe it would make more sense later, when he actually had some blood flow to his brain.

Phil put down his second foot and started tracing over his legs, starting at the ankle and moving upward, alternating between the left and the right, the back and the front. Clint felt his breath quicken as those hands crept closer and closer to his ass, but when they got to the hem of the towel, instead of pulling the towel off or going under it or even touching him through it, he heard Phil standing up again. Clint couldn’t hold back a disappointed groan.

“Patience,” Phil said again, and pressed a finger on the place where he’d bitten Clint, which kind of hurt but also felt really good. Clint let out a deep breath and pushed back into the touch a little.

“Yes, sir.”

Phil let out a little huff of breath, just an edge of sound to it. It was a sound he made when he was really really horny and trying not to let on, and Clint smirked. At least he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

_(“I’ll want to make you wait. Make us both wait, really. The more we wait, the better it’ll be in the end.”)_

Phil came around in front of Clint, and yup, he was all the way hard, looked like, a giant bulge in his pants and a flush high on his cheekbones, a glitter of sweat at his hairline. He looked amazing; Clint wanted to _touch_.

“Sir,” he said. A protest, a plea.

Phil looked him over, quick but intense. Clint wasn’t sure what he saw, besides the truly ridiculous tent in his towel, now barely clinging to his hip bones, but it seemed to please him; he smiled, wide and sweet, and took one big step inwards, bringing their bodies together from chest to knees, wrapping strong arms around Clint and taking his mouth in one of those hard, awesome kisses. Clint wanted to bring his arms down, to wrap them around Phil and hold on tight, but Phil had said _stay where I put you_. He whined into the kiss, desperate, but he held.

When Phil broke the kiss, pulling in breath noisily, he leaned his forehead against Clint’s. This close, he was mostly a blur even to Clint’s eyes.

“God,” he said, voice rough. “Clint. So good, you’re being so perfect for me.” He stretched out his own arms, pulling Clint’s down to rest at his sides, Phil’s hands tight around his wrists. Clint’s bare chest was brushing against Phil’s clothes every time they breathed, fine wool rasping over his nipples, the silk of Phil’s tie a tease down his sternum. Clint’s dick felt like it was trying to burrow straight through its towel-prison and Phil’s pants to rut against Phil’s hip. Phil’s own dick was a hard, lovely presence, and it took a near-superhuman effort for Clint not to just grab a double handful of Phil’s ass and heave them together over and over until they both came.

“ _Perfect,_ ” Phil said again, and it wasn’t true, Clint knew it wasn’t true, but it was so good to hear Phil say it nonetheless.

Clint wasn’t sure how long they spent, heads tipped close and breathing each other’s air, but eventually Phil visibly pulled himself together and stepped back again. Clint almost entirely mostly didn’t make a bereft little noise as his departure left a cold stripe all down Clint’s front. Phil ran a comforting hand down his chest, and he sighed, enjoying the attention even while kind of missing Phil’s grip around his wrists.

“I know you want more.” Phil started stroking over his collarbone, fingers lingering in the dip at the base of his throat before moving down over his pecs. “I want more too.” He nudged his cock up against Clint’s hip again, just a fleeting second of contact, but it still pushed a little grunt of breath out of him. “I promise, I won’t leave you hanging. I’ll give you everything you nee— everything you want. I _need_ to give you everything you want. Can you wait a little longer, Clint?” His hands spread out over Clint’s chest, palms cupped over his nipples, not even touching them but teasing with the heat of his hands. 

It took Clint a minute to realize that Phil had asked him a question, and it was only when he opened his eyes that he noticed he’d let them drift closed. He blinked, bringing Phil’s face into focus. All veneer of Agent Coulson was gone, suit and badge notwithstanding; this was all _Phil,_ soft and open and intense, looking at Clint like…

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, and Phil’s eyes slid shut, his jaw flexing, a beautiful ripple of muscles that Clint wanted to trace with his tongue, but he wasn’t to move. He wondered, distantly, what would happen if he needed to move for some reason, but he wasn’t really worried. If it was important he move, Phil would tell him. 

“Good,” Phil said. “So good. Just stay there and let me take care of you.”

That sounded good to Clint. He’d tell Phil so, later, but for now he was focused on the way Phil was touching him, his hands skating over Clint’s abs as he bent to trail stinging kisses along his chest. Clint’s nipples were tight and aching for touch, primed by the way Phil kept coming close, close enough that his breath tickled them, and then moving in another direction entirely. He took pity, finally, and closed his mouth over one, swirling around it with his tongue, rough-soft-wet. Clint hissed out a long breath between his teeth, tensing up all over with the effort of staying still. Phil hummed around him, then moved to the other nipple to repeat his actions. When he pulled away, they were both wet and tingling in the air.

Finally, _finally,_ after what felt like seventeen hours, Phil pulled Clint’s towel untucked and let it fall to the ground. The brush of rough terrycloth over his dick was almost shockingly good, after so long with so little contact, and Clint thought he made some kind of noise, but he wasn’t really paying attention to that anymore, because Phil was kneeling down again, those warm hands spanning over Clint’s hips, thumbs tracing the cut of muscle that arrowed down to his groin.

“So patient for me,” he said, warm and proud. “You’re doing such a good job.” He took away his hands— _what, no, don’t go away,_ Clint thought, but it was all right, because he was just taking off his suit jacket, tossing it aside like it didn’t even matter, and then he was rolling up his sleeves with quick, neat movements, and taking a little bottle out of his breast pocket.

“Spread a little more for me,” he said, and Clint obeyed, widening his stance, his dick bobbing with the motion in a way that he would have ordinarily found hilarious but currently was actually making him feel even more horny. Phil did something with the little bottle, Clint could hear the click of the cap, but his thoughts were slow like syrup and he didn’t put two and two together until Phil reached between his legs—somehow managing to avoid his dick entirely—and pressed a wet finger against his asshole. He startled, but Phil seemed to have expected that and left his hand in place, rubbing gently over Clint’s hole until it started to relax, his forearm brushing Clint’s balls as he worked his finger inside. Clint clenched, just to feel him better, and Phil patted Clint’s hip with his free hand. He didn’t seem to be trying to open Clint up all the way, or to hit his prostate; once he was inside he just stroked Clint’s walls a little. It was oddly comforting. Phil was leaning forward, his forehead resting on the jut of Clint’s hipbone, his rapid breath fanning over Clint’s dick, cool over the wetness at the tip where he was leaking precome. Clint felt like his feet were rooted to the floor, like he was a tree and Phil was a vine, and if this was how all that meditation shit really felt then he took back everything he’d said about Agent Sitwell’s yoga class.

Phil eventually withdrew his finger, stroking the skin as he went, and trailed gentle touches forward. Clint’s balls were high and tight, and even though he and Phil’d had sex almost every day that week they felt full to bursting. Phil cupped his sack in one hand, moving his balls around like they were those stupid chiming exercise balls that you got in Chinatown. He was so sensitive it almost hurt, but Phil somehow knew how to keep the stimulation just on the right side of pain, letting go just before it became too much.

“…Sir?” Clint managed.

Phil smiled, and traced one of the veins on Clint’s dick with a fingertip. Clint moaned; it felt good, it felt amazing, but it wasn’t enough. Phil steadied his dick with fingertips, and leaned forward. _Finally,_ Clint thought, but all Phil did was lick the head, just once, swiping the tip of his tongue through Clint’s precome and then rolling it around his mouth like wine.

_“Fuck,”_ Clint said, then caught himself. “I mean sir!”

“It’s all right,” Phil said. He stroked Clint’s flank, soothing. “You can say anything you need to from now on.”

Clint nodded, gulping down air as Phil stood. Phil didn’t have to make it easier on him. He could follow the rules. “Yes, sir.”

Phil kissed the words off his lips, and then took his wrist again, the warm, firm hold somehow inexpressibly reassuring. He led Clint to the bed and sat down on the edge, spreading his knees wide and gesturing between them, where he had moved the cushioned mat that was usually in the kitchen. “Kneel.” 

Clint sank to the floor, knees surprisingly comfy on the mat. Phil’s thighs bracketed him, just a brush of wool along each arm. He sat back on his haunches and slouched a bit so that his face would be level with Phil’s crotch, just in case.

Phil threaded his fingers through Clint’s hair, that same gentle petting motion he’d done before, and Clint made a happy little sound, pushing into Phil’s hand.

“ You’re amazing,” Phil said quietly. “Going where I put you, being so patient even when I make you wait and wait. It only makes me want you more.”

“Please, sir,” Clint said. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted, by now, just _more,_ more of Phil on him and in him, more of that firm voice and those gentle hands, more of that easy, happy place where everything was good and warm and Phil was taking care of him forever. Phil smiled.

“You have been very good,” he said. “You should be rewarded.” He laid one hand on his groin, and Clint’s mouth watered. “Would you like a taste?”

“ _Y_ es sir—Phil—sir, _please,_ ” Clint said, almost quivering in place.

“Then you’ll have it,” Phil said. “Hold still.” He unzipped his fly and took his cock out, not even bothering with the button, not even unbuckling his belt. He was long enough that even with Phil’s clothes mostly in the way, there was still plenty for Clint to get his mouth on. He _wanted_ his mouth on it, wanted to lick the salty head and then take it down his throat, wanted to stuff his face with it and bury his nose against Phil. He whined under his breath, but he stayed still.

“Sir, please?”

Phil stroked his hair again, his hand moving slow like his cock wasn’t inches away from Clint’s mouth. “You can taste,” he said. “But don’t suck.”

“But, sir—” 

“Don’t make me come, do you understand?” Phil’s voice was firm, his giving-orders voice, his don’t-test-me-agent voice, and Clint was kneeling between Phil’s spread thighs, and he wondered dimly whether this was all just a really awesome sex dream.

“I might not mean to,” he said, faintly, because he was good, but nobody’s perfect.

Phil reached down and cupped his face. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I promise, I’ll warn you if I get too close, but then you have to stop. Can you do that?”

Clint nodded, licking his lips. There was a drop of moisture welling at the tip of Phil’s cock, and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. 

“Then go ahead,” Phil said, and that was all Clint needed. He licked the head first, mirroring what Phil had done to him earlier, capturing the fluid there. Phil was astringent, salt and musk on his tongue, and he brushed his parted lips over the head and down the shaft, just feeling the thin skin there, all velvet and heat. He lapped and nuzzled his way down toward Phil’s body, pushing his face into Phil’s open fly, trying to reach more skin. 

He felt Phil’s hand setting in his hair again, petting through the short strands on top. “Easy,” Phil said, and tugged him backwards a little. Clint whined, but obeyed, trailing lush, wet kisses back up towards the head.

“That’s it.” Phil’s voice was rough with arousal. “Good, baby, get me nice and wet.”

Clint didn’t bother trying to respond, just applied himself to his task, his focus narrowed down to Phil’s hand in his hair and Phil’s cock beneath his lips and tongue. He kept his mouth soft and loose as he worked it over, until the skin was glistening, jerking with Phil’s heartbeat, beautiful, and Phil pulled him back by his hair and said, “Enough.”

Clint looked up at him, mouth still slack, his own spit smeared around his mouth and down his chin, body hot and buzzing, mind full of nothing but Phil. Phil’s chest heaved, shirt clinging damply to his skin, his own mouth puffy, almost as red as his wet cock, still waving tauntingly close.

“Tell me what to do,” Clint managed, and Phil’s hand tightened in his hair; even the pull of it felt so good, made the hot-buzz-ache climb a notch higher. 

Phil stood, and his cock trailed a wet line across Clint’s cheek. “On the bed, on your back,” he said, and Clint scrambled to obey.

Phil’s hand swept from Clint’s head down his arm, grasping his wrist again, a quick squeeze and release. “Put your hands just above your head,” he said. “Wrists crossed, elbows bent. That’s it,” he said, as Clint hastened to obey, his eyes gleaming, dark and intent. “Damn but you’re beautiful like this.” He moved, quick and graceful, straddling Clint’s waist and holding his crossed wrists with one hand, leaning into them with just enough weight that Clint could feel it, heavy and secure, and being pressed into the mattress felt like floating.

“Please,” he said.

_“Beautiful,”_ Phil said again, and moved; Clint’s couldn’t see, Phil’s dangling tie blocking his view, but he could extrapolate from the motion of Phil’s shoulder; Phil grasping his own spit-slick cock, giving slow, luxurious pulls. “All spread out in my bed to give me pleasure.”  

“For you. Only you, nobody else.”

The back of Phil’s hand was brushing over Clint’s abs as he jerked himself, the slow movements getting faster, harsher. “So—strong,” he panted. His thighs flexed around Clint’s flanks. “Gentled to my hand. A gift. My— I—ah!” he broke off into a choked cry, and Clint moaned as he felt Phil’s come splash hot on his skin, painting his chest. Phil leaned more heavily on Clint’s wrists, nursing little spurts out of his cock as he twitched with aftershocks, and Clint keened, bucking beneath his weight, trying futilely to get some stimulation on his own aching cock and only succeeding in brushing against Phil’s ass, still covered by his suit pants.

“PleasesirPhilsirplease,” he begged, and Phil met his eyes, squeezed his wrists reassuringly.

“So good,” he said, breath still coming fast. “Strong and clever and perfect for me, so beautiful. I want you to come for me. Hold onto the headboard.”

Clint nodded, desperately, and wrapped his hands around the slats, the position tensing the muscles in his chest and arms.

Phil wiped the tip of his softening cock off against Clint’s abs and sat up, swinging one leg around so he was kneeling beside Clint on the bed instead of on top of him. He ran his hand through the pool of semen on Clint’s chest, scooping up a palmful, and wrapped it tight around Clint’s dick, punching a wail out of him at the sudden sensation, tight-slick-rough.

“Come for me, Clint,” he said, voice intense and hot. “Fuck it out of yourself in my fist.” 

“F-fuck,” Clint gasped, waves of heat and goosebumps chasing themselves over his skin as he arched his back, driving his cock up through the slick of Phil’s come into the tight perfection of Phil’s grip. It was filthy and hard and perfect; Phil’s arm was solid as stone, braced against the force of Clint’s thrusts, his fingers curled just right so that his calluses rasped a little through the slide, catching under the rim of his cockhead just on the edge of pain. He fucked Phil’s fist with great heaves of his back, arching up into it with all his strength, braced on his toes and his grasp of the headboard. He thought maybe he was making noises. He didn’t care.

Phil reached with his other hand and rubbed come over one of Clint’s nipples. “Yes, that’s right, so good,” he crooned, his fingers plucking, pinching, and Clint could feel it building in his balls and his thighs and his goddamn _teeth_. “Come on, Clint, fuck my hand, take it. _Good boy_ ,” he said, and the orgasm slammed its way out of Clint in a great scalding wave, and Phil worked his cock through it with clever hands until he finally shuddered and was still, messy and buzzing, so light.

Phil kissed him, his hair, his cheek, his lips, murmuring praises while Clint drifted. There was a warm wetness, scrubbing over his chest, a tender attention on his dick that still made him shudder. Pets and soft words, gentle hands. Phil. Phil came into bed beside him, pulled a soft blanket over them both. Phil wasn’t wearing his suit anymore; it was time to sleep. Clint curled up. Phil behind him, around him. Safe.

_(“Then you’d just hold me, as long as I wanted until I fell asleep, and you’d still be there in the morning.”)_

Clint slept. Phil was still there in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter may be a bit delayed by some RL preoccupations, but fear not, more is coming (so to speak.)


	4. The Birthday Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot wings and bondage: it's a very happy Hawkeye birthday.

Despite Clint's suspicions about a few of the weirder corners of R&D (and the persistent rumors about Phil that time in Chechnya), time machines don't actually exist, so when he woke the next morning, fucked-out and snug in a cocoon of soft blankets and warm lover, he only got to wallow for a few minutes before he remembered that he had to go back to work the next day. 

“Awwww,” he muttered. “Vacation.”

Behind him, Phil stirred, one hand stroking clumsily down Clint’s side. “Good, Cl’nt,” he muttered, face smooshed into the back of Clint’s shoulder, and it was so dorky and yet so perfect that Clint had to swallow a giant lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He caught Phil’s hand and held it tight, pulling it forward and maybe clutching it to his chest a little. Over his heart, he thought, and then snorted in disgust at his own sentimentality.

“Hmm?” Phil said, and Clint felt him wake up, lax muscles tensing a little, his head lifting as he looked around the room.

“Sorry,” Clint said, sheepish. “Go back to sleep.”

He felt Phil shake his head, hair brushing the back of his neck. “No, m’awake. What time is it?”

Clint glanced over at the clock. “Wow, it’s nearly ten. Did the power go off or something?” Phil always set an alarm, even on vacation. Something about circadian rhythms. 

“I turned it off,” Phil said. “You needed your rest.”

“Awww, you do love me,” Clint said, then went still. It was _true_ , Clint was pretty sure, but they didn’t say it much, and generally booze, sex, or near-death experiences were involved. “Um. I mean—”

“Of course I do,” Phil said, like it was a given. Like Clint had just said that the sky was blue or Natasha was amazing. Phil shifted, hauling Clint onto his back and leaning up on one arm to look into his face. “Clint.” He waited until Clint met his eyes; they were blue and bright and solemn, steady as the core of the world. “I love you. And I’m sorry that I made you doubt it.”

Clint had to look away; it was embarrassing, that he’d made Phil think he needed coddling, but at the same time Phil’s words were big and warm in his chest. “I didn’t— I mean. It’s just.” He gave up on talking—stupid words—and just pulled Phil down on top of him, burying his hot face in the soft hair on top of Phil’s head and breathing him in for a while.

“You’re everything,” he said, finally. “The best thing. Sometimes I can’t believe it.”

Phil pressed a kiss onto his collarbone. “We’ll work on it,” he said, the same way he’d talked about Clint learning Russian or a new CQC technique or how to fly a quinjet, and then he let Clint hold onto him for a while longer until he felt more steady, and then they went out for brunch. 

The thing about Phil Coulson, see, was that he was solid. Dependable. The kind of guy who always did the things he promised. That was the thing about him that had first made Clint sit up and take notice (okay, it was actually the sight of him in a dress shirt and bulletproof vest as he came swooping into a clusterfuck of a mission to pull Clint’s ass out of the fire like a very dapper and yet badass guardian angel, but once Clint had jerked off a time or twelve and gotten his brain back online, the dependability was right up there.) So when Phil said that they’d work on it, what he meant was that he was going to embark on a singleminded campaign to convince Clint (or rather, Clint’s stubborn half-buried childhood insecurities) of his love.

Things weren't all that different at work, really; they were both professionals, fully able to get through the day without constantly checking in with each other. But when work brought them together, Phil was a little more relaxed, a little more likely to let himself smile at Clint, to sit beside him instead of across the table. A couple times a week, when they were both free, Phil would show up wherever Clint was around lunchtime and they'd eat together in the cafeteria (because "no, Barton, putting cream in your coffee does not make it food.")

Outside of work, it was a different matter. Phil Coulson, stone-faced gentleman of reserve, would not stop touching him. Nothing trashy, of course, but he stood close, touched Clint's hands, the small of his back, the nape of his neck. He brushed hair out of Clint’s eyes, leaned in to say things into Clint's ear, his breath making shivers chase down Clint's spine. 

Finally, Clint'd had to say something. 

"Seriously, Phil," he'd said, staring down at where Phil was holding his hand, right out on a public street where anyone could see. "Should I be checking under the bed for a pod or something? You never used to be this touchy-feely."

"I'm sorry, is it making you uncomfortable?" Phil tried to pull his hand away, but Clint caught it, feeling like an asshole and wishing he hadn’t said anything. 

"No! Nothing like that. God, Phil, you know I'm a snuggly motherfucker, at least with you and Nat. It just seems kind of sudden? I mean. I don't want you to do stuff you don't like just for my sake, you know?"

Phil took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he stared off into the horizon. "I like it," he said at last. "I always wanted to be like this, but I held back; I didn't want to come across as... overbearing. Possessive. The things I've been doing lately, they're things I wanted to do all along. I’m just not stopping myself anymore." He glanced over, his hand tightening its hold. "You've trusted me with so much," he said. "Things I know it was hard for you to share. You deserve the same level of honesty from me."

“In that case,” Clint said, trying to keep his tone light and not let on how moved he actually was, “don’t let me stop you,” and the next time Phil gave his hand an affectionate squeeze, he just let himself relax and squeeze back.

Weeks passed, and they went on dates and they did scenes and sometimes they just stayed over at each other’s apartments and fucked like normal, and gradually Clint mostly stopped feeling like something disastrous was going to happen or he was going to accidentally fuck everything up somehow.

On the day before his birthday, Phil took him and Natasha out for hot wings, because Clint loved hot wings and Natasha disdained them on principle unless it was a special occasion, so he didn’t get to eat them much unless he was by himself. Eating by himself kind of ruined the best part of hot wings, though, which was watching in awe as Natasha and Phil both managed to eat them without making the tiniest bit of mess. Clint tried, he really did, but he usually ended up finding wing sauce under his nails and in his eyebrows and once, disturbingly, inside his ear. It was okay, though; Phil got extra wet naps, and they made sure to get a double order of celery for Natasha, who actually liked it. 

They had cake and presents after the worst of the sauce was cleared away; Nat gave him some new sunglasses and Phil got him the limited edition Blu-Ray of the first season of Dog Cops, and after Clint opened them they got the bartender to make him some kind of drink that was purple and tasted amazing; Natasha even refrained from mocking his choices in alcohol while she drank her horrible vodka. Afterward, Natasha went home and Phil and Clint went back to Phil’s place, where Phil pushed Clint up against the wall, gave him the world’s slowest, most luxuriant blowjob, and then bundled him up to sleep as long as he wanted in the morning.

The next day, Phil made them bacon and eggs (the fresh brown farmer’s market eggs that tasted better than any eggs ever) and then brought out a giant box, wrapped in charcoal-gray paper and a purple velvet ribbon. 

“Happy birthday,” he told Clint, smiling a little nervously.

“Still?” Clint blurted. “I mean, thank you, but you didn’t have to, Phil, you already got me that box set.”

“That was your public present,” Phil said. “This one’s more… private. And admittedly, not entirely for your benefit.” He was turning a little pink along the cheekbones.

Clint was extremely interested in what a private birthday present that was not entirely for his benefit and that made Phil blush might be. “May I?” he rubbed his thumb along the ribbon, heavy and soft.

“Please,” Phil said. “But I just want to say, before you open it, that if you don’t like it, it’s perfectly fine. I won’t be offended or anything. It’s just… an idea I had.”

“I usually like your ideas.” Clint untied the ribbon and pulled open the thick gray paper, smiling at Phil in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Inside was a wooden box, kind of like a jewelry box but bigger, the surface plain but polished. Phil watched him intently as Clint opened the lid on its oiled hinges.

“Sir,” Clint breathed, and his head actually went a little swimmy in a rush of lust. Inside the box, nestled in individual compartments lined in dove-gray satin, was a set of leather cuffs, wrist and ankle, and a matching cock ring. They were deep purple, oiled and glossy, and tooled with a chevron pattern that echoed his field suit. 

(Phil’s kinky storage boxes had yielded up some plain black leather cuffs that they’d had a lot of fun experimenting with, but they were nothing like as beautiful as these were.)

“The tray lifts out,” Phil told him, and Clint lifted the first layer and set it aside, to reveal another set, wider and larger than the first. He ran a finger over the supple leather, trying to figure out what these pieces were for. He’d watched a lot of leather porn, but he hadn’t exactly been taking notes on various bondage options. He shot Phil a questioning look.

“Biceps,” Phil said, pointing. “Thighs.” He reached over and lifted this tray out, too; there was another layer underneath. “This is a chest harness, these straps convert it to a full body harness, and the other straps and hardware are for general use, to connect the pieces to each other or to other things. They’re made to measure.” 

“Phil,” Clint said, helplessly. “It’s amazing—they’re beautiful—but this is too much, this stuff must have cost a fortune.”

“I was just going to get the cuffs, but it was a custom order,” Phil said softly. “I had to buy the whole hide to get them in that purple, so while I was at it, I figured I might as well get an assortment, and…” He actually looked a little sheepish; it was adorable. “Well. I might have gotten a little carried away during the ordering process. We don’t have to use anything you don’t like.” He paused, shifting his weight. “There’s one more piece,” he said, “but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it.” 

“How come?”

“It’s a collar,” Phil said. “Traditionally, they have a lot of meaning in kinky circles, but the meaning is different for different people. Some people wear them all the time, some people only for play; some people treat them as a symbol of commitment and some as a fun accessory. I don’t know how you feel about them, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to pressure you or make our relationship into something it’s not.”

“Can I see it?”

Phil handed him another, smaller box, this one covered in velvet like the boxes jewelry came in on TV. The collar was nestled inside, as though it were a necklace. It was the same deep purple leather as the rest of the set, the tooled pattern a little fancier. The hardware was the same brushed steel as the other pieces, but smaller. Clint picked up the collar and ran it through his fingers; it was supple and smooth, warming quickly in his hands. He thought about wearing it around his neck, and felt a shiver of arousal. He thought about Phil putting it on him, and had to bite back a needy little sound.

“Maybe we could try it out,” he said, and his voice came out unexpectedly rough. He cleared his throat. “We could see how we like it. Hell, we could try out the whole kit, pick our favorites.”

“When were you thinking?” Phil’s tone was casual, but he was holding on to the edge of the table so hard his fingertips were white.

Clint put on his best come-hither smirk (shut up, that was totally a thing.) “Well, I didn’t have any plans for today, so… wanna tie me up and play with my birthday present?”

Phil wet his lips, his eyes gone dark and intense. “Go to the bedroom,” he said, “and be naked by the time I get there.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Clint said happily, and hustled down the hall. They’d done this often enough by now that Clint knew how much time Phil would give him; he’d been optimistically thorough in the shower that morning, so there wasn’t much needed as far as prep, but Phil always gave him time to do a “transitional activity,” even though he really didn’t need it anymore. He took a quick bathroom detour (to prevent mundane bodily needs from interfering with other, more fun bodily needs) and continued to the bedroom. The curtains were open and a bright square of buttery morning sun painted the floor; he moved the padded mat (which had permanently migrated to the bedroom) into the middle of it, then skimmed out of his sweats and knelt, trying to arrange himself appealingly. 

The sun was warm and soothing on his back, and he closed his eyes and slowed his breath. He was practically conditioned, by now; naked plus kneeling plus the smells of Phil’s apartment meant safety, pleasure, love. His cock hung heavy between his spread thighs, not hard yet but well on the way, filling in little waves with the throb of his pulse.

He felt a stir in the air, and opened his eyes. Phil stood in the doorway, Clint’s presents in his arms, watching him with dark and hungry eyes. He crossed to the bed in three long strides, setting the boxes down, then went straight to Clint, wrapping one hand in the hair on the back of his head and pulling Clint’s head back for a hard, greedy kiss. Clint went pliant under his hands, content to be moved wherever Phil wanted to put him, the brush of Phil’s clothes on his naked skin making waves of goosebumps chase over his chest and arms. When Phil finally broke the kiss, they were both panting, and Phil rested their foreheads together for a few seconds before straightening up and stepping back. Clint couldn’t help swaying after him a little before he caught himself and moved back into the kneeling posture he’d started in.

“You’re amazing,” Phil told him, voice roughened. 

“You’re biased.” Clint dropped his eyes. He was still a little uncomfortable at the praise, but that didn’t mean it didn’t fill him with warmth when Phil said that sort of thing.

“Nevertheless.” It was Phil’s no-nonsense voice, the one that declared the matter settled. It was a voice you believed.

“Yes, sir.” 

“One day I’m going to convince you,” Phil said, and moved close enough to cup Clint’s cheek, fingers tracing over his cheekbone, making him shiver.

“You could try tying me to the bed,” Clint suggested helpfully. 

Phil laughed. “You’re not subtle, Barton.” He reached out a hand and tugged Clint to his feet. “Stand here for a minute, let’s talk.” He pulled Clint nearer to the bed, so that the boxes containing Clint’s birthday present were in easy reach, and picked up the collar box.

“Sometimes people use a collar to help delineate play, especially when they only scene sometimes,” he said.

Clint grinned. “Like a transitional activity?”

“More or less.” Phil’s voice was warm, indulgent. “I wondered if you might be interested in trying something similar.”

“So, if I wanted to, you know—” he gestured at the giant box of bondage equipment, his own nudity. “I’d, what, put it on and come show you?”

“Some people do it that way,” Phil said. “Alternately, some people leave it out as a nonverbal signal, or request that their partner put it on for them.”

“That,” Clint said instantly. “I mean, either one? But I think I’d really like, um. Taking it from your hands.” He felt a little silly saying it, but he’d learned that if he pushed through the feeling, telling Phil things like that was always rewarded in sexy ways.

“Thank you for telling me,” Phil said, the way he always did when he could tell it had been hard. “Would you like to wear it now?” 

Clint nodded.

“Then it would be my honor.” Phil liked a little ceremony, sometimes. Clint didn’t mind; truth be told, he kind of liked being one of the things that Phil thought was important enough to make the effort for.

Phil lifted the collar out of its box and ran his fingers along it, the same way he did before he handed Clint a new piece of equipment, checking for rough spots or weaknesses. Satisfied, he lifted Clint’s chin with a gentle finger. He fastened the collar deliberately, making a bit of a production out of it, letting his fingers brush over Clint’s hammering pulse as he did up the buckle. A wave of heat swept over Clint as the soft leather snugged up against his throat. Phil ran two fingers under the collar, checking to make sure it wasn’t too tight. He settled it into place at the base of Clint’s throat, then leaned in to kiss a sucking mark on the thin skin right above it. Clint moaned, letting himself clutch at Phil’s hips.

“Thank you for the gift of your trust,” Phil said, and there was a little catch in his voice, a brightness in his eyes, that told Clint that maybe the collar thing was a bigger deal to Phil than he’d let on.

So much the better.

“It belongs to you,” he told Phil, and maybe he phrased it that way on purpose to watch the way it made Phil catch his breath.

“Feet apart,” Phil said, his voice low and intense. “Hands at your sides.” 

Clint widened his stance, not even caring about the way it made his cock flop around, and tilted his head back just enough for the collar to press into his neck a little. Phil was opening the larger box and taking out the trays, setting all the straps and clips and cuffs out into some order of his own. He picked up the first piece, one of the smallest, and turned to face Clint.

“Hold still,” he cautioned, and Clint groaned as he lifted Clint’s cock and balls, gathering them neatly in one hand while he snapped the cock ring around the base of him.

“Let me know immediately if anything starts to tingle or go numb, or you feel any pain,” he said, voice firm even as his fingers moved gently over Clint’s skin, making sure no skin or hair was caught or pinched. 

“Yes, sir,” Clint managed, then bit his lip as Phil lifted his cock out of the way and deftly snapped two more small straps in place, one nestled under his shaft and the other running between his balls, separating them. He’d gone the rest of the way hard under Phil’s fingers.

“Good,” Phil said. “Arms out.” He slid the chest harness up Clint’s arms and settled it into place, adjusting the buckles until the leather framed Clint’s pecs just so. It was snug, constricting in a comforting way, and Clint found himself sinking into the little tugs and touches, breathing extra-deep to feel it better as his chest expanded.

Phil picked up the conversion straps next; one of them wrapped around Clint’s waist like a belt, the next two connected the waist piece to the chest harness in front and back. Then two more, looping down from his waist, between his legs, and back up, tying the whole thing together. The last strap attached in the middle of the waist, then went down— _fuck_ —down to attach to a small D-ring on top of the cock ring. Phil cinched everything just tight enough that Clint tugged on the cock ring a little every time he breathed.

“That’s the body done,” Phil said. “How does it feel?” 

It took Clint a couple of tries to make words, his mouth was so dry. “So good,” he managed, and when Phil wrapped his hand around the center strap and pulled, he whimpered at the way the straps translated Phil’s touch, swaying into Phil’s body. Phil kissed him, sucking on his bottom lip while tracing the leather straps on his back, letting Clint feel the press of his cock through his pants for a little while before pulling back, though he didn’t let go until Clint was steady on his feet again.

“Right arm,” he said, and when Clint held it out, he wrapped the wide cuff around his bicep, then the smaller one around his wrist. Phil traced the edge where the arm cuff met his skin, letting his fingertip skate over the cut of muscle. Clint shivered. 

“You’re doing beautifully,” Phil said, and pressed his lips against the cuffs, bicep and wrist, and then into the cup of Clint’s palm. “Left arm, now.”

Clint had been handcuffed a lot in his life, but the bite of metal around his wrists was nothing like what he felt as Phil wrapped him up in soft, gleaming leather that warmed against his skin. It felt almost like a part of himself, or maybe a part of Phil, holding him with many hands. 

“Legs next,” Phil said. He picked up the larger leg restraints from the bed and crouched in front of Clint, securing the cuffs around his ankles and thighs. “I’ve got a spreader bar in one of those boxes,” he said, stroking over the edge of the thigh cuffs, his thumb brushing from leather to flesh and back. His face was so close to Clint’s cock, Clint could feel the puffs of air as Phil spoke. “I could put it on you, keep these gorgeous legs of yours spread for me as long as I wanted.”

“Yes,” Clint said, nearly trembling with the effort of not rutting forward to get his cock closer to Phil’s lips. “Please, yes, sir, I want to.”

“So perfect for me,” Phil said, moving even closer, his mouth just brushing the tip, the tiny contact making Clint jerk and moan. Phil kissed Clint’s cockhead, soft and wet and lush, leaving a glorious ache behind. “Can you take more, baby?”

Clint felt warm and buzzing all over, his skin sensitized. His cock felt huge, swollen and hot from the ring and wet from Phil’s kisses. “Whatever you want,” he managed. “Please.”

Phil stood, letting his hand trail all along Clint’s flank as he rose. “Stay where I put you,” he said, and led Clint over to the foot of the bed. He clipped Clint’s wrists together, palms facing. “Over the footboard,” he said. “Lean on your forearms.” 

Clint obeyed, bending at the waist to rest his bound arms on the footboard, spreading his feet a little for balance. Phil nudged them further apart and back a little, then picked up a few more of the long straps from the bed. He attached Clint’s biceps to the bedposts, then his ankles, taking up the slack until Clint was held securely in position, bent over the bed with his hips far enough back that he couldn’t get any stimulation on his cock. 

Phil ran a proprietary hand over Clint’s exposed ass. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and Clint closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of drawers opening and closing and Phil’s steps as he came back to the bed. There was the soft click of the lube bottle, then Phil pushed two wet fingers into his hole, quick and careful.

“Ffffuck,” Clint gasped, rising up on his toes and clenching into the delicious burn, then moaning as the stretched position pulled on the cock ring. He loved when Phil would give it to him like this, just take what was his, really let him feel it. “Fuck, Phil, fuck me please, sir,” he babbled, trying to rock into those fingers, feeling the straps tighten around his arms and legs, holding him so that he could only move a half-inch or so.

“Patience, baby,” Phil murmured, scissoring his fingers and rubbing at his rim, working him loose efficiently. “Just take it for me.” 

Clint groaned, sagging into his bonds, letting his world narrow to the press of leather and the slick pressure in his ass. When Phil pulled his fingers out, he whined in protest.

“It’s okay, Clint,” Phil said. “I’ll take care of you, I promise. There’s just one more thing for now.” Clint heard the lube bottle again, and then something cold and firm pressed against his hole; a plug, probably the one they’d used before.

“Sir,” he said, not sure whether it was a request for Phil to stop or to keep going.

“I know you can do it,” Phil told him, nudging the plug just a little, the slick tip of it slipping inside; Clint wanted more.

“Please, sir,” he managed, and Phil hummed in satisfaction.

“That’s it,” he said, and pushed the plug inside, slow and inexorable. Clint panted as it wedged him open, wider and wider, until the fattest part slipped in and the rest followed in a rush, the long narrow base settling between Clint’s cheeks.

“There you go,” Phil said, stroking over Clint’s ass, his back, the tops of his thighs. “So good for me, Clint, I knew you could do it.” He unclipped the straps from Clint’s arms and legs. “I’m going to help you stand up,” he said. “Slowly, okay?” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, and gave another little moan when Phil grabbed the back of the harness to help him stand, the pull across his chest and waist and cock so good, the plug shifting inside. It was like Phil was holding him all over his torso and fucking him, all at once.

“We’ll go to the bed now,” Phil said, steering Clint with his fist tangled in the back of the harness. Clint followed where he led, not paying attention to much beyond how each movement set of a chain reaction of pleasure, the tugs of the harness on his cock making him bear down on the plug, the shifting of the plug inside him making his muscles tighten, pulling on the cock ring again. By the time Phil had settled him on his back in the middle of the bed, Clint was panting, sweat dewing on his skin.

Phil moved around, in and out of Clint’s field of view, busy with something. He’d tell Clint when Clint needed to know.

“I’m going to tie you down now,” Phil said, straightening from where he’d been bent over near the headboard. “Stretch out your arms.”

“Sir,” Clint managed, reaching as far as he could. The sunlight was falling on the bed now, painting his legs and chest with warmth. It felt good to stretch out into it. Phil ran a soothing hand over each arm as he clipped Clint’s wrists down, pressing him into the crisp white sheets. He clipped short straps to the bicep cuffs, but left the ends to dangle loose.

“You’re so amazing, Clint,” he said. He sat on the bed beside Clint, his hip, still clad in his soft weekend jeans, touching Clint’s flank. He brushed his fingers over Clint’s face, down his neck, slipping under the collar again. “Bright and brave and so good for me, everything I could ever ask.”

Clint shuddered—at the words or at the touch, he couldn’t be sure. He wished Phil were naked, suddenly, wanting to see the way his freckles stood out in the sun, wanting to feel it.

“And your body. The way you care for it, so it can carry you wherever you need, so it can help you save the world. It’s incredible. I never get tired of seeing what you can do with it. I want to play with it some more. Can you take more for me?”

Anything. Everything. “Yes,” Clint gasped. “Please, Phil. Only—” he cut himself off. This wasn’t the time to make demands.

Phil brushed warm hands through his hair, tugging his head back a little, making Clint meet his eyes. “What, baby? What can I do to make it good for you?”

“Take off your clothes? Please, I want to feel you.” 

Phil smiled. “Of course I will.” He stood, and shed his clothes in seconds, kicking them carelessly aside, not even pausing to put them in the hamper. He knelt on the bed at Clint’s side, his cock jutting out all hard and flushed and beautiful. Clint’s mouth watered. He started to reach for Phil, but was caught by his cuffs.

“I want to try a position,” Phil said. “Remember, let me know immediately if anything hurts or starts to go numb, understand?”

Clint jerked a nod, fingers twitching with his need to touch. Phil ran his hands down Clint’s side to his knee and lifted, pulling his knee up and out. Clint took a deep breath, the stretch in his hamstring and ass and lower back amazing, just on the edge of too much, when he heard a soft click and looked down. Phil had clipped the thigh cuff to the short strap on Clint’s bicep.

“Is this okay?” Phil rubbed the back of his thigh, stretched tight by the position. “Can you stay like this for a few minutes?”

“Yes,” Clint said. “Do— do the other one?”

“Gladly.” Phil clipped the other leg into place, moving deliberately but not slowly, and Clint gasped at the sensation. With his legs bound high and far apart, his ass was spread wide, everything from cock to hole exposed and available for whatever Phil might choose to do.

“God, just look at you,” Phil rasped. “I want to put my hands and mouth all over you, all framed in my cuffs and pulled open for me. I want to bite my way down your thighs to your cock.”

“Please,” Clint panted. “Whatever you want, do it, please.”

Phil made a harsh, bitten-off noise, and leaned forward, setting his teeth into the tense, corded muscle of Clint’s thigh and worrying at it, not breaking the skin but leaving a line of hot, tender spots down to the curve of his ass. Clint moaned, twitching in the cuffs, all he had the slack to do. He wanted to move away from Phil’s mouth, he wanted to press himself harder into it, he wanted Phil to pull out the plug and put in his cock, he _wanted_.

“I love this cock ring,” Phil said. He traced a finger down the slim strap that ran between Clint’s balls, which were tight and high, full and aching. “ _Look_ at you,” he said again, and his voice was soft, wondering. He bent and licked along the strap, and Clint keened at the sudden wash of hot-soft-wet on his balls.

“You’ve been so good.” Phil’s hands were moving, stroking over Clint’s taut hamstrings, the tender skin of his perineum, his hot, damp cockhead, a bare wisp of contact that was not enough but so good. 

His voice seemed to resonate deep in Clint’s belly. “So very good for me, I think you deserve a reward. How do you want to come, Clint? You can have whatever you want. I can give you my mouth, or my ass, or I can take out the plug and slide my cock right inside you, baby, where you’re all slick and ready and waiting.”

Clint wanted it all, everything, all at the same time, but even so he knew the answer to this question. “Fuck me,” he panted, his breathing shallow from the pressure of the position. “Deep, you could get so deep like this, Phil, please, I want—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Phil said, voice gone sibilant, hands clenching on the backs of Clint's thighs. “Yes, I promise, yes, as deep as I can, I will, I’ll give you what you need.” He reached down, clever fingers finding the plug and drawing it out in one long aching pull. Clint was so empty without it, so open, spread wide and waiting, chest heaving against his bonds as he drew great sobbing breaths. 

“Shh, shh, I’m coming, I’ve got you,” Phil said, and then he was in at last, his cock pushing Clint open, longer and fatter than the plug had been. He felt enormous inside, so hard and deep and full and good, and Clint was soft and hard and tight and loose and molten and burning and dizzy with it, with Phil in and around and over him, everywhere.

“Fuck, the _sounds_ you make,” Phil panted. “You could make a— a dead man come, _f-fuck_ , baby, so good—”

“Please,” Clint begged, hardly aware of what he was even saying, his whole existence narrowed down to sensation, his cock a hot throbbing ache, and he was so close, so _close_ but he couldn’t quite get there. “Sir, p-please, I can’t—”

“Yes, yes, I will, you will.” Phil’s fingers fumbled a little underneath his cock, and then the ring snapped open and Clint yelled at the wave of pleasure sweeping up from the root of him, like Phil was pushing it into him with every thrust. He was poised on the edge of coming, but he just couldn’t, he needed something—

“I need—” 

“I’ve got you,” Phil said, and then, yes, _there_ , he wrapped slick fingers tight around Clint’s cock and pulled the orgasm out of him in three rough jerks. Clint fell into it, dizzying and deep, coming and coming like his balls would never be empty, and he was distantly aware of Phil grabbing the harness for leverage, shoving his cock as deep as it could go and spilling into Clint’s ass with a cry.

Everything was bright and fuzzy and beautiful, and by the time Clint started noticing his body again, Phil had already unhooked his legs and eased them down to the bed, rubbing out the tension in his hips with warm and tender hands. Clint hummed, a small happy noise, his body melting like butter into the bed.

“Stay still, you were brilliant, you did everything right,” Phil was saying, and Clint let himself drift as Phil drew off the cuffs and straps, wiping him clean and scattering little kisses on his skin. The last pieces to go were the wrist cuffs and collar, and Clint frowned, not wanting to give up the feel of them yet.

“No, leave ‘em,” he managed to say, and he thought Phil looked surprised, then pleased.

“Whatever you want,” Phil promised, and contented himself with loosening the wrist cuffs a little, running a finger underneath, checking Clint’s fingers.

“M’fine, c’mere,” Clint said, grabbing at him clumsily. He was a little cold without the leather, now, and he just wanted Phil to stop moving and keep him warm.

“Yes, sir,” Phil said, voice rich and amused and fond, and laid down, pulling Clint into his arms and bundling them under the duvet. Clint made a happy little noise as he nudged his nose into the hollow of Phil’s throat, all soft skin and spicy-Phil-smell. Phil’s hand drifted through his hair, settling on the back of his neck, his fingers rubbing idly over the collar.

“Happy birthday to _me,_ ” Clint muttered, and drifted to sleep to the sound of Phil’s warm laughter.


	5. Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's had a rough couple of days. Fortunately, Phil has some ideas to help him relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Allecto, Schuyler, and Kathar for beta!
> 
> Just a reminder that each chapter in this stands alone; I'm doing it as a chaptered fic instead of a series for the greater ease of people who like to download to e-readers. But it's perfectly safe to read as it goes, and I'll put a note if there are ever any plot arcs that don't resolve at the end of each chapter. This is not going to be one with cliffhangers, unless "what sexy thing they will try next" is a cliffhanger. :)

It had been a shitty couple of hours.

Well, to be fair; it had been a shitty couple of hours that came after an even worse couple of shitty hours that came at the end of a string of shitty days, and it was really and truly not the fault of Agent Butler or Dr. Marquez (or any of the other SHIELD people who were only doing their jobs) that Clint currently hated them all and was fantasizing about punching his way out of the debriefing room and going on the lam somewhere where he wouldn’t have to fill out any forms.

It had only been Clint’s third mission as field team leader, was the thing, and he’d been absolutely promised milk runs for at least the first five. The lead gig hadn’t even been his idea, not really, but the Strike teams only got called out every so often—which was good, of course, but still—and he got bored when Natasha was undercover without him. So he’d actually been secretly really pleased during his mid-year evaluation when Hill had said they wanted to _utilize his tactical skill set more fully_ and _further develop his leadership skills_ by putting him in as alternate lead on Field Team Twelve.

Clint was a sucker, bottom line. No amount of Natasha smiling and saying it was about time or Phil looking proud and smug and talking about how he was totally calling dibs on Twelve in next year’s fantasy league could change the fact that their intel had been fucked and their extraction had been intercepted and Agent Lee had sprained her ankle and Agent Thomas had been made and they’d had to get out of Managua using Plan G.

Plan _G_. One plan _past_ Plan F-for-Fucked-Which-Is-What-We-Will-Be-If-We-Have-To-Use-This-Plan. (Clint had _an informal and collegial management style_ , motherfuckers, that was the official title.) 

They’d gotten the intel—the only bright spot in the whole miserable experience—but with the mark rumbling Thomas they didn’t know how long it was good for, so Strike Team Beta was scrambling to move even while Clint was sitting in a torturous chair, in a conference room that smelled like sweat and moldy cream cheese, trying to dump anything out of his brain that might help them a little.

He’d thought he hated after-action when he was just a specialist; that was nothing compared to this, because he didn’t just have to talk about what he’d done, he had to talk about what everyone _else_ had done, and how it had gone, and whether they’d been supposed to do that, and what that said about them. He felt newly, retroactively sympathetic to all his old handlers and team leads for everything his _innovative operational thinking_ had put them through.

Thinking of handlers made him think of Phil—most things did, eventually—and that reminded him how much he _missed_ Phil, who’d been on assignment with Natasha for two weeks before Clint’s mission had started, and who’d only managed to get back to HQ in time to wave to Clint as he was boarding the jet to Nicaragua. It had been an intense few weeks, between the mission prep and the mission itself, and Clint wanted—something, he wasn’t even sure what, sex or sleep or just to be able to _chill_ for a while without being responsible for anything. The mission had gone sideways in the middle of the night, because of course it had, and Clint could feel a fine tremble starting in his muscles, a faint queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach: the product of too many stimulants and too much adrenaline and too little sleep. 

He talked himself out, finally, and slumped onto the table while Butler finished her notes, letting his eyes get lost in the beautiful complexity of braids she wore in her hair. He kind of wanted to go straight to Phil as soon as they let him go and see if Phil could be convinced to tie him up again. Clint wasn’t up for much sexually just then, he didn’t think—he’d be shocked if he could even get it up in his current state—but he figured they could probably work something out, and maybe once he was wrapped up nice and tight he might stop feeling like he was going to fly off his tether any minute.

“Agent Barton?”

He startled, dragging his attention back to the debrief. “Sorry, what?”

Butler was frowning at him, concerned. “Do you need to stop by medical?”

He blinked. “I…don’t think so?”

“It’s just, you’re rubbing at your throat,” she said, waving a hand in his direction. 

He had been, he realized. Not just rubbing, either, but pressing a little, right where his collar sat, like some kind of fucked-up self-soothing routine. He felt his face get hot.

“No, sorry, I’m fine,” he said. “Just, you know. Kinda wiped.”

She smiled at him, sympathetic. “Well, I think we’ve got everything we need for tonight,” she said. “So you’re free to go, Agent Barton. Good work.”

“Thanks.”

He felt kind of weird about that, because he’d just got finished telling her about the various ways he’d fucked up. It would be rude to argue with her, though. That was just what you said at the end of debriefs; it was a morale thing. Clint had taken a webinar when he’d been prepping for the lead gig.

Regardless, the surge of happy released-from-debrief feelings carried him off the floor and into the elevator, and he was a few steps away from Phil’s office before he realized that it was the middle of the afternoon, hours before Phil would be ready to leave. He couldn’t help the disappointed slump that crept onto his shoulders; he wanted to go home—his or Phil’s, it didn’t matter—but he didn’t particularly want to be alone. He was still too wired to nap on Phil’s couch, even. He should probably just swing by to let Phil know he was done and hope they could meet up for dinner or something.

“Are you coming in, or did you just want to visit the hallway?” Phil’s voice was warm and amused, and washed over him like a hot bath. He actually went a little weak in the knees as he looked up; Phil was leaning in the doorway, looking like a wet dream made flesh. He had his jacket off, his tie loose and his sleeves rolled up, and Clint wanted to lick the tendons on the backs of his hands, set his teeth around the knobby bones of his wrists.

“Hey,” he said sheepishly, trying not to look as zonked as he felt. “Sorry, just kind of zoned out for a minute. Too many stims.”

“Ah.” Phil nodded sympathetically. “I know the feeling.” He straightened up and came closer, clapping a hand on Clint’s shoulder, squeezing a bit before letting his hand fall away. His fingertips brushed the base of Clint’s neck on the way, and Clint shivered.

“Are you looking for company, or did you want to be alone for a while?” Phil asked.

“I was hoping to talk you into to going to get dinner or something,” Clint admitted, “but I didn’t realize how early it was. Maybe we could do something after you get off work?”

Phil cocked his head, giving Clint one of his piercing, thoughtful looks; Clint was suddenly acutely aware that he was greasy and red-eyed and smelled horrific.

“Why don’t we go now?” Phil said.

“What?” Clint said, because what? 

“I mean, I understand if you’d rather be by yourself,” Phil continued, “but if you’d like company, I can take the afternoon. I have the last episode of _Dog Cops_ on the DVR.”

“How was it?” 

Phil shrugged. “I haven’t seen it yet,” he said, as though that weren’t an earth-shattering thing to say; Phil _hated_ to be spoiled so he always watched his shows as soon as possible. “I wanted to watch it with you.”

Clint quivered with the effort of preventing himself from just falling into Phil’s arms and burying his nose into that sweet spot on Phil’s collarbone that always smelled amazing. “That,” he said. “Please, that sounds perfect.” 

Phil smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I need about twenty minutes to wrap things up before I can leave,” he said. “You want to wait here, or do you have anything else to do on base?”

Clint wanted nothing more than to stay with Phil, but he was a little worried that in his current state he’d end up trying to wedge himself under Phil’s desk or something. “Maybe I’ll grab a shower,” he said. “I think I’ve still got half a Nicaraguan mudslide in my pants.”

Phil raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking as he let his eyes trace slowly over Clint’s lower half. “Far be it from me to impede the improvement of any situation inside your pants,” he said, and Clint cursed everything about the last week, because at any other time he’d have been _all over that_.

“Meet you downstairs in thirty?” he asked.

Phil smiled. “Deal.” 

Clint lingered in the hall long enough to catch a glimpse of Phil’s ass as he went back into his office, then forced himself down to the gym levels. He opened his locker on auto-pilot, trying to remember whether he’d had a chance to swap out some clean clothes before he’d left. He had a vague memory of running late for something and chucking his shit into the locker, thinking he’d deal with it later; he was half-braced for the sort of stink you got when sweaty gym stuff was allowed to mildew as he pulled out his gym bag and yanked on the zipper.

Nothing stank. In fact, the bag was packed with neatly-folded sweats and towels and t-shirts that smelled like laundry detergent. Clint actually reared back to double-check the locker number, because it was possible he might have remembered to put clean clothes in his locker, but no _way_ would those clothes have been folded and springtime-fresh. He pulled out the shirt on top and shook it out; it was one of his, with a purple target on it, and a piece of paper fluttered out of the folds as he held it up. He grabbed it before it hit the floor, feeling his chest swell when he recognized Phil’s handwriting.

_Welcome home_ , the note said.

Clint spent entirely too long fighting the urge to bury his face in the gym bag, or hug it, or something. There wasn’t anyone else in the locker room, but someone might come in any moment. The last thing Clint needed was some kind of new rumor flying around about him having a laundry fetish or something.

He pulled out his shaving kit (the place where it was goopy from when Clint’s shampoo had exploded one time had been cleaned up and everything neatly repacked), a change of clothes, and a soft, fluffy towel that he was pretty sure was too nice to be one of his. He proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes in the shower. When he finished, the tile beneath his feet was an unpleasant grayish-brown color and he was scrubbed pink all over, a little lightheaded from the heat, and so clean he squeaked. He pulled on the clean clothes Phil had left him. It wasn’t like being tied up, not exactly, but there was something reassuring about the whole process of cleaning himself and then being covered from the skin out in things that Phil had found and cleaned and left for him. He wondered if maybe he’d gotten too used to showering as his transitional activity, but shrugged it off; at this point, anything that made him feel a little less like he was going to jitter out of his skin was welcome.

Phil had even washed his laundry bag; it was folded in the bottom of his locker. Clint stuffed his disgusting clothes into it and took it with him, not wanting to stink up the rest of the nice clean stuff Phil had left. When he got back to Phil’s office, Phil was just locking his door. He looked up with a smile at Clint’s approach.

“Great timing,” he said, as Clint fell into step beside him. “Feel better?”

“You have no idea,” Clint told him. “Um, thanks for the clothes, by the way. I was afraid I’d have to steal Nat’s sweatpants, and you know how pissy that makes her.”

“I’m sure you would have cut quite the figure,” Phil said, mirth in the corners of his eyes, “but I’m happy to help preserve Agent Romanoff’s wardrobe.” He rested a hand on Clint’s hip, just for a second, but there was something proprietary in the touch that made Clint feel warm all over.

They walked down to the garage in companionable silence. Phil had actually driven in that day, a rare occurrence. 

“I thought it might come in handy,” he said, when Clint asked about it.

“Well, I wasn’t looking forward to the subway, so good call,” Clint said, letting himself collapse into the soft leather seat and tilting his head back. He didn’t fall asleep but he did let himself drift a little, traffic noise and the quiet sound of the radio blurring into the background.

“Clint,” Phil said, some time later, and Clint snapped back into awareness with a jolt.

“Yeah?” He looked around, but didn’t see anything wrong.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Phil said. “I just wanted to know, would you like me to let you off in front of the building, or are you okay to walk back from the garage?”

Phil’s garage space was actually pretty close, only a couple of blocks. Clint had a key (and some drawers, and a little slice of the closet), but he found himself oddly reluctant to go up to Phil’s place alone right then.

“Just park it,” he said. “I’ll walk back with you.”

They walked close together on the way back to Phil’s apartment, shoulders brushing. After the second time Clint’s hand bumped his, Phil took hold of it, entwining their fingers with a reassuring squeeze. He didn’t even drop Clint’s hand when they got to the apartment, dealing with the locks one-handed before towing Clint inside and shutting the door behind them.

Phil had obviously cleaned recently; everything was gleaming and smelled like lemons. It wasn’t that Phil’s place was ever _messy_ , exactly, but he did tend to build up little mountains of books and papers anywhere he worked and let them stay in place until whatever project they were related to was complete. Clint found it kind of endearing.

“TV first, or would you rather do something else?” Phil asked, shucking his jacket as he walked toward the bedroom.

“TV’s good, but…” Clint hesitated, hovering in the hall. He wanted that, to lounge on the couch with Phil and watch _Dog Cops,_ but he also wanted Phil to do something, bind him or manhandle him a little. He didn’t want sex, really, just the feeling that he got during and after that kind of sex; wrapped up in Phil, warm and held and safe.

Phil turned around, and came back to where Clint stood. “How can I help?” 

Clint sighed. “This is gonna sound weird,” he said, “but… can I wear my collar, maybe? I feel like I can’t settle.”

Phil smiled at him and curled a hand around his throat, heavy and warm and a tad rough, the most comforting thing in the world. Clint couldn’t help the little noise he made when he pushed into the hold. 

“Would you like to be subby for the afternoon?” Phil asked. “We can definitely do that.”

“That sounds great,” Clint said. “Only I don't think I could get it up with a crane, so…”

“I’m pretty sure I can help you relax without the sex,” Phil said. “I’ve got some ideas.” 

“Doesn’t exactly sound fair to you.” Clint could hear the wistfulness in his own voice. “Isn't that a whole lot of work for you without any payoff?”

“The payoff isn’t the orgasm, Clint,” Phil said, and he stroked his thumb over Clint’s collarbone, soothing and tender. “It’s in knowing that I can give you that feeling, that you trust me enough to _let_ me give it.” He paused, visibly searching for words. “Have you ever wanted to do something for someone, to make them happy, but you didn’t know how?”

“Of course.”

“Imagine that feeling, and then imagine that they told you exactly what to do, and let you do it, and let you see it bring them happiness,” Phil said. “That's what it's like for me. There’s a lot of things in our lives that I can’t control or fix. When we’re together in this way, you give me a chance to feel the impact of my actions with my own hands, to see that I’m making you feel good. _That_ is the gift; the sex is just… the wrapping.”

Clint blinked at him. How was he even real? Clint was pretty sure nobody had ever felt like that about him before—about _him_ , not about his ass or his aim. He suddenly kind of wished he could just stay here safe in Phil’s apartment for the next _always_ , so he wouldn’t have a chance to fuck this up for himself.

“What the hell,” he said at last, clearing his throat when his voice came out husky. “Let’s give it a try, then.”

Phil beamed at him. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to be the one thanking you," Clint said. He shifted his weight, feeling a little awkward. Was he supposed to go get his collar now, or…?

“Are you comfortable with any sexual contact or touching, or would you prefer I keep everything platonic?” Phil asked, and Clint relaxed; he should know better by now than to think Phil would start something new without talking about it at all, even if sex wasn't coming into play.

“I don’t want you _not_ to touch me,” Clint explained. “I just don’t feel up to sex right now. So, I guess… you could do what you’d normally do if you weren’t trying to turn me on?” 

Phil made a considering little humming noise; it was a mission-planning noise, and Clint felt another swell of fondness. 

“So, kisses and affectionate touch, but nothing specifically intended to arouse?” 

“Sounds good," Clint agreed. He was starting to get excited, thinking about it; _kisses and affectionate touch_ from Phil sounded just about perfect.

“Please let me know if you need me to change what I’m doing,” Phil said, and Clint couldn’t help smiling at him sappily. 

“I promise,” he said.

Phil brushed a kiss over his mouth. “I’m going to change,” he said, “Take a minute if you need to, then come meet me in the bedroom.”

Clint had already had a shower, plus he was already feeling halfway down, hazy and warm through, so he only took enough time to put away his jacket and shoes before heading down the hall. There was something electric about it, even though they both knew this wasn't going to end in sex; just walking toward Phil, knowing that he was going to put himself in Phil's hands when he got there, made something underneath Clint's skin hum.

Phil was in sweats when Clint got there, sweats and sock feet, soft and snuggleable, with no zippers or snaps: nothing harsh on him anywhere. Clint wanted to hug him immediately.

“Hey,” Phil said, giving him a soft, sweet smile. “You want to bring your collar over for me?”

The collar usually lived in Clint’s drawer, though sometimes he took it back to his place; it was his, after all, to do with as he liked, and sometimes when Phil was on a mission without him he liked to have it close by. He pulled it out of its box, letting his fingers trail over the supple leather, and held it out to Phil.

“Put it on for me?” he asked.

Phil curled his hands around Clint’s, raising them and kissing his fingers before taking the collar. “It would be my honor.” 

Clint lifted his chin, stretching his neck to make it easier. He let his eyes drift shut as Phil buckled the collar, enjoying the little tugs of the leather and the warm brush of Phil’s fingers as he made sure it was laying flat, comfortable and not too tight. Clint rolled his shoulders a little, loving the way it felt when his muscles moved against the slight constriction. Phil threaded his fingers through the hair on the back of Clint’s neck, holding his head back a little as he leaned forward and kissed Clint right above the collar, the way he always did. Clint let himself lean back into the hold, going easily where Phil moved him.

“I have something I thought you might want to wear,” Phil murmured. “May I put it on you? You can always change if it doesn’t work for you.”

Clint opened his eyes, smirking a little. “Is this like the last thing you bought me to wear, sir?” He tilted his head back a little more, presenting his neck; he felt warm all over at the way Phil’s eyes were drawn to it.

“Not exactly,” Phil said. “But I hope you’ll like it, all the same.”

“Of course I’ll wear it,” Clint said. “I like wearing things you picked for me.”

Phil’s eyes slid shut, and Clint could see his throat work as he swallowed hard. He leaned forward and kissed it, in the same spot where Phil had kissed him. Phil made a happy, humming sound that Clint could feel buzzing against his lips, and wrapped his arms around Clint; Clint let himself sink into it, wallowing in the feeling of being wrapped up in Phil’s arms and his warmth and his scent. He could feel Phil relaxing, too.

Eventually, Phil pulled back, and Clint managed not to protest; he knew that Phil would take care of him, and part of him was curious what he had in mind. Phil smiled and touched his cheek.

“Lift your arms for me?”

Clint did, and Phil peeled him out of his sweatshirt. Clint shivered, his naked skin pebbling in the chilly air of the bedroom, his nipples going stiff.

“I know it’s cold,” Phil murmured, rubbing his hands over Clint’s arms, warming him with the friction. “I’ve turned the heat up, it will just take a minute. Here, this should help,” and he took something off the bed and shook it out; some kind of robe, it looked like, the color of red wine. He held it for Clint to slip his arms into, then pulled it up around his shoulders and settled it. It was smooth and heavy and sleek, cold at first but rapidly warming as Phil rubbed his arms and back and shoulders through it. It was silky—hell, maybe it was silk, not like Clint would know how to tell—and he could feel Phil’s touch through it almost more than if he were bare.

“There,” Phil said, nodding to himself like Clint was a well-executed tactical assessment. He took Clint’s hand, kissed the back of it, and moved it to the bedpost. “Lean if you need to,” he told him. He slipped his thumbs inside Clint’s waistband, grabbing both his sweatpants and his underwear and pulling them down Clint’s legs to puddle at his ankles. He ended up eye-level with Clint’s dick; even as wiped out as Clint was, he felt it give a hopeful little throb at the sight. Phil just patted Clint’s calves, one after the other, and helped Clint step out of the clothes. He even took off Clint’s socks, leaving him naked except for the robe, covering his back but hanging open down the front.

Phil straightened, letting his hands skim up over Clint’s sides as he stood, firm enough to feel soothing rather than teasing. He leaned in to kiss Clint again, then wrapped the sides of the robe snugly around him and tied the belt closed. “Sit on the edge of the bed,” he said. He knelt and pulled a shoebox from under the bed; it turned out to contain a pair of sheepskin-lined slippers, which Phil slipped onto Clint’s feet. They were soft and squishy and warm and had rubber on the bottom so you wouldn’t slip on the floor; Clint loved them immediately, and beamed at Phil, reaching out to him and cupping his face.

“Thanks,” he said, simply, and Phil turned into his hand and kissed the palm of it before rising. He took Clint’s hand again, and led him back into the living room. He opened the coat closet and pulled out a big basket, overflowing with soft stuff; cushions, it looked like, and blankets, and—

“Is that a beanbag chair?”

Phil went a little pink. “I thought it might come in handy.”

“You hippie, you,” Clint teased, leaning up against Phil’s back. He felt nice and warm now, the tension easing the more he was wrapped up in Phil’s things and his space. Through the robe, he could feel the texture of Phil’s clothes, the bumps and curves of him. He maybe rubbed his mostly-soft dick against Phil’s ass, just a little; it felt so good. “Are we gonna smoke weed in the basement and play video games?”

“Maybe later,” Phil said, pressing back into him. Clint let his eyes slide shut, leaning his forehead on Phil’s shoulder.

“We could sit on the couch while we watch TV,” Phil said, his voice vibrating in Clint’s chest, “or, if you’d like, I can put some blankets and cushions down and you can sit between my knees. Some people like—”

“Yeah,” Clint said. Something about the idea sounded perfect, even more than stretching out on the couch with his head in Phil’s lap would be; he could have more of Phil around him that way. “That one, I want that.”

“We’ll start there, then,” Phil said. He reached around behind himself to pat Clint’s hip before he straightened up. “We can always move if you aren’t comfortable.” He put the beanbag chair on the floor in front of the couch and draped it in a quilt, then sat Clint down on it. “Would you like a drink or a snack?”

“Maybe later,” Clint said. “C’mere, I’m cold.”

“We can’t have that,” Phil said, and sat; Clint leaned forward so Phil could get settled with a leg on either side of him. He leaned his cheek against Phil’s knee, curling up so that the robe covered more of his legs.

“Here,” Phil said, and pulled something else out of the basket on the floor; it was a blanket, silky purple plush on one side and some kind of faux sheepskin on the other. Phil shook it out and draped it over Clint, bending to tuck it under his feet and around his lap. 

“Is that new? I like it,” Clint said. It felt really soft. He caught it between his fingers, rubbing at it.

“It made me think of you,” Phil said. “I want you to be comfortable here.” He ran his hand over Clint’s shoulder, warm through the robe.

“I’m awesome,” Clint told him, nuzzling a little at his knee to see if it made Phil stroke his hair. It did. “Now Dog Cops.” 

Phil chuckled a little and turned on the DVR.

This was the best way to watch TV. Clint wound one arm around Phil’s leg, his head pillowed against his thigh, and tugged at Phil’s other leg until it was pressed up against his side. Phil kept touching him all through the episode, running fingers through his hair and down his neck, tracing over the collar, resting over his pulse. Clint could feel the rest of his tension draining right out of him like Phil was pulling it out with each stroke. By the end of the show, he was slumped heavily against Phil, feeling sweet and easy and content.

“Can I get you something to eat now?” Phil asked softly. “I’d feel better if you ate before you went to sleep.”

“Mmmmkay,” Clint mumbled, kissing Phil’s leg. It was just right there, was the thing, and it needed kissing.

“Let me up a minute, baby, I promise I’ll come right back,” Phil told him, and Clint grumbled but unwound himself from around Phil’s legs enough for him to stand. His back was cold without a Phil to lean against, and he made a complaining little noise and clutched at the purple blanket. Words were hard.

Phil came back soon, though, setting some stuff down on the end table before getting back into place and tucking Clint’s blanket back in. Clint humphed, wriggling back into his nice warm cozy spot. That was the best spot. 

“You’re doing so well,” Phil told him. He ran a thumb over Clint’s lips. Clint kissed it. “Can you open your mouth for me?”

Clint did.

“I’m going to give you a bite,” Phil said, and put something in his mouth; cool, smooth. A grape. 

“Go ahead and eat when I give you something,” Phil told him, so Clint did; it was nice, sweet and wet on his tongue, and Phil kept touching him.

“Good, Clint,” Phil said, and Clint nuzzled into his leg a little more. “Here.” Clint opened obediently for the next bite; something salty, this time, with crunch—a little peanut butter cracker.

Phil fed him for a long time, little bites of popcorn and chicken and crackers and cheese, single grapes and blueberries. In between, he’d give him little sips of juice from a straw. Halfway through, Clint closed his eyes again, just opening his mouth whenever Phil touched his lips and taking what Phil gave him and basking when Phil told him he was good, he was doing so well. Phil was all around him everywhere and keeping him warm and feeding him and touching him and telling Clint he was good and Clint was so tired but he didn’t want to go to sleep and have it be over.

He felt something warm and wet on his face, and Phil rubbed at it with his thumb. “Are you okay, Clint?”

“Good,” he mumbled. “Green, good, m’good, sir, please…”

“Shh, yes, you are, you’re always good for me,” Phil said, and leaned forward and hugged him and kissed his hair, the side of his face. “My good boy. Will you come and sleep with me now?”

“Kay,” Clint said, and Phil kept him close and brought his blanket and didn’t stop touching him the whole time as they went back to the bedroom. Clint didn’t bother opening his eyes. Phil wouldn’t let him fall.

Phil wrapped Clint up in his arms and in the covers of his bed and rubbed his back, tender and slow, and Clint buried his face in Phil’s chest and breathed his smell and listened to his heart.

He slept.

It was broad day when he woke up again. Between the sun, streaming in the window, and the heat that Phil had apparently cranked up and never turned back down, it was pretty hot; Clint had kicked all the blankets off himself in the night, but he was still wearing his collar and the silk robe and was wrapped around Phil like an octopus. Phil was awake, running a hand through Clint’s sweat-damp hair.

“Good morning,” Phil murmured. “How are you feeling?”

Clint stretched, considering. He was loose and heavy all over, well-rested, a little hungry but nothing that couldn’t wait. He was also horny as hell, his cock already aching; maybe he’d been having sexy dreams. He felt amazing. The robe shifted over his skin, reminding him that he was naked underneath; he rolled his hips, nudging his cock against Phil, who chuckled.

“That good?”

“Good and getting better,” Clint promised. 

“Mmm, I look forward to it,” Phil said. Phil was just wearing boxers, probably in deference to the heat, and Clint worked his hand inside. Phil was hard too, silky-hot and delicious underneath his fingers, and he made a gorgeous rumbling groan when Clint pumped his cock in a loose fist. 

“Yes, like that,” Phil said, pulling Clint closer, Clint’s front pressed tightly to Phil’s side, his head on Phil’s shoulder, his hand on Phil’s cock. “Tease me, Clint. Make it last.”

Clint obeyed gladly. Close as they were, he could feel every tremor of Phil’s muscles, could tell every touch that made him jerk or gasp or moan, the way a swipe of string-callused fingers over the head made his cock pulse. Clint’s own cock was throbbing and leaking, wet silk between him and Phil’s thigh, but he ignored it in favor of moving so he could wriggle his other hand around to press behind Phil’s balls. He felt the root of Phil’s cock jerk beneath his fingers. It was heady and powerful, watching Phil just… put himself into Clint’s hands like that; Clint thought maybe he was starting to see what Phil was talking about when he said _submission is a gift_.

“Please,” Phil finally gasped, his body trembling, and Clint pushed wet kisses into Phil’s skin as he pressed a little harder, gripped a little tighter, moved a little faster. Phil arched his back, shoving himself into Clint’s hold, and came with a stuttering, broken moan that was so hot it almost tipped Clint right over with him.

They were both panting and sweaty, and Phil was flushed pink from his forehead to his white-streaked belly. “Fuck,” Phil said, “fuck, Clint, come here,” and he yanked the knot of Clint’s robe free. The sides fell open, Clint’s dick sticking out of the middle. Clint barely had time to notice how funny it looked before Phil grabbed at his arms and pulled; Clint helped, rolling over to straddle Phil’s hips. Phil yanked him down, straining up into a rough kiss and arching his back again so that Clint’s cock rubbed across his wet groin.

“Fuck, _Phil_ ,” Clint groaned, and went with it. He let the sides of the robe fall down around them both as he ground down against Phil, rutting through his come and against his softening cock, pressing them together as hard as he could. Phil clung to him with all his considerable strength, his breath forcing out of him in little huffs with each thrust. When Clint came, it seemed to come from his entire body, toes and hands and even his hair, like his whole body was his dick somehow.

They lay there for a while afterward, letting their breath slow and trading tiny kisses, until finally Phil gave the little sigh that Clint knew meant “I’m about to make you get off of me. Sorry, but I like breathing.” He straightened back up. Phil made a hilariously disgusted face at the noise as they peeled apart.

“We need a million showers,” Clint told him. “And then waffles.”

Phil grinned up at him. His face was still red and he had epic sex hair and his eyes were bright. He was the most fucking gorgeous person Clint had ever seen; he wanted to see him just like this every goddamn day for the rest of _time_.

“Yes, sir,” Phil said. He looked blissed out and smug and so damn happy that Clint had to kiss him some more. 

They ended up having the waffles for lunch.


	6. Goes Both Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some missions are just terrible. Fortunately, Clint and Phil have a good recovery strategy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to TwangCat for beta, and to Kathar and Faeleverte for cheering me on as this chapter got more and more absurdly long!

 

Clint braced his hands on the tile and let his head drop forward, relishing the hot pounding spray. The SHIELD showers weren’t exactly luxurious, but the pressure was great and the hot water never ran out. The numerous little scrapes he’d picked up during the conclusion of his last mission stung under the spray. Phil had patched him up on the quinjet on the way back to base, but field first aid could only do so much; most of the abrasions weren’t deep enough to warrant bandages, anyway.

Natasha was away on a mission with Director Fury, so Clint and Phil had gotten folded in to the final stage of an op being run by Agent Donnell. They’d spent the last week crowded into a one-bedroom apartment with Donnell and Specialist Hancock, whose inconveniently-timed slip-and-fall on an icy sidewalk had led to a sprained knee and the need for another sniper-capable field team. Clint had never worked on one of Donnell’s ops before; Phil had gotten a sour look when he’d heard about the request, but hadn’t said anything one way or the other.

The thing was, Phil was one of the most unflappable, professional men Clint had ever known; he could walk into a room full of people that Clint knew for a fact he couldn’t stand, get shit done, and leave them all thinking what a good working relationship they had with Agent Coulson. That was probably why it took Clint several days to twig to the fact that Donnell was dancing on Phil’s last nerve.

It wasn’t that Donnell was making mistakes—mistakes happen—or that he was making bad calls—everyone does that sometimes. The issues that kept coming up weren’t even all that serious, just the kind of minor glitches and emerging issues that happened any time you were in the field. They didn’t have to be a big deal, and as long as your Ops team knew what they were doing, they usually weren’t. Phil was a master at that kind of thing, which was just as well, considering the sorts of missions Delta usually ran.

The problem with Donnell was that he kept screwing up, turning little things into bigger problems than they needed to be, but he was convinced he was doing an awesome job.

And that he needed to correct Clint on how to do shit.

And that he needed to correct _Phil_ on how to do shit.

And when Phil tried his normal, ultra-polite, we’re-all-professionals, let-me-share-something-that-has-worked-for-me-in-the-past way to give advice, Donnell puffed up like a wet cat and tried to throw his weight around, reminding Phil— _Phil!_ —that Donnell was AIC of the op and it didn’t matter that Phil outranked him, in the field Donnell got to call the shots.

(In the end, of course, Clint called his own shots, because Donnell’s shots were bullshit, but that wouldn’t happen until later.)

And they’d spent the week stuck in the apartment, with Donnell and Hancock (and Hancock’s leg brace and crutches and Donnell’s ego). The apartment had been fine when it was just Donnell and Hancock staying there, but adding two more people, even if they did come with their own air mattresses, made the perfectly normal-sized apartment feel like an overcrowded prison. There was no reason that poor Hancock couldn’t have gone back to base and briefed Clint over Skype or something, but Donnell had insisted that he had to stay on site in case they needed his intel at a moment’s notice. Privately, Clint thought Donnell was just throwing his weight around because he could; Hancock was on pain meds and spent most of the week limping between the bed and the couch, morosely watching telenovelas, not exactly the picture of a man ready to leap into action.

Being with Phil but not able to be _with_ him had been a special kind of torture. They weren’t unprofessional at work, but most ops had some downtime and at least a little privacy where they could relax, maybe watch some TV with their arms around each other or kiss each other goodnight. On this op, though, the only privacy was in the bathroom, and there was only one of those, so Clint couldn’t even try to hijack it for personal reasons. Phil had pulled him behind a door, the last morning of the op, and they’d spent a few precious stolen moments leaning in, trading soft kisses and just breathing each other’s air; but other than that, they’d been strictly-business the whole time.

It had honestly been kind of a relief to finally be turned loose to _do_ something, even if that something was to perch on a roof and cover Agent Alvarez as she went through with the final meet. Simple, right?

Naturally, things hadn’t stayed simple.

It had all worked out fine in the end. Things had started out kind of hairy, because as soon as someone at the meet got suspicious Donnell lost his cool entirely and told Alvarez to do exactly the wrong thing, blowing her cover and turning one suspicious guy into eight murderous guys. Clint managed to take out enough of them to get her clear, mainly by ignoring everything Donnell was telling him to do; by the time he and Alvarez had met back up and started running, Phil had pulled rank on Donnell and taken over Clint’s comm line himself. That was all Clint really needed; when he would say things like, “quick, boss, what’s Albanian for ‘food poisoning’?” or “they made the hotel, I need alternate egress in the next thirty seconds,” Phil would come right back with _“helmim nga ushqimi”_ or “turn left, third door on the right, down two flights, there’s a service elevator with no surveillance about ten feet on the left.”

By the time they made it to the evac point, Clint was flushed and high with triumph and adrenaline, Alvarez had a secondhand crush on Phil for his handling prowess alone, Donnell was red-faced and petulant, and Phil looked completely ordinary and calm, if you didn’t know him well enough to see the cold fury lurking behind his eyes and in the subtle flex of his punching hand. (Hancock had already left, with the safe house cleaning crew earlier in the day; thank goodness for small mercies.)

Phil made a point to congratulate Clint and Alvarez on a job well done, which just made Donnell madder; as the AIC, he should properly be the one to do the attaboys, but he _hadn’t_ , so tough shit, Donnell.

Alvarez had taken a bullet to the bicep on the way out of the disastrous meet, so she ended up in the back of the jet being seen to by the medics while Clint’s wounds—all minor, mainly caused by doing a rolling landing onto roofing gravel and free-climbing something splintery—were dealt with by Phil’s deft, gentle fingers. Afterward, Phil had strapped himself in so close to Clint they were practically sharing a seat, pulled out his tablet, and started amending his AAR. (He’d been working on it all week, easing his annoyance at Donnell by meticulously documenting his fuck-ups.) If Clint knew Phil—and he did—he’d have it electronically submitted before the jet even landed, with cc’s to Donnell’s supervisor and Director Fury for good measure. Clint had leaned in, enjoying the warm press of Phil’s arm against his, and worked on his own report, hoping it would mean less time on base before he could drag Phil home and do something to work out all the frustration of the last week and the adrenaline of the day.

_That_ , Clint was still hoping to do, hence the extra-thorough shower. They’d both been whisked straight off the jet, Clint to medical and Phil to a high-level debrief, but Clint had managed to shoot Phil a text ( _“take me home tonight? i dont wanna let you go till we see the light”_ ) and Phil had responded with a _“your musical taste is suspect but your ideas are fantastic”_ that Clint was 98% certain he’d typed under the table in his meeting, so the day was looking up, honestly.

He finished his shower and went to wait for Phil in his office, where he could sniff the traces of Phil-smell that clung to the collar of his emergency spare suit jacket—he’s not a creeper, okay, it just smelled really good—and then burrow comfortably into Phil’s couch with the book that he’d stashed under the cushions. At least, that was the original plan; when he got there, though, Clint was still too hyped up to settle, fidgety and horny and needing to _do_ something.

When Phil came in, half an hour later, Clint was draped upside-down on the couch, humming both parts of “Take Me Home Tonight” (he’d earwormed himself) and kicking his feet in time as he used a tiny crossbow he’d made out of office supplies to launch thumbtack-darts at Phil’s wall calendar. Clint looked up—down? over at Phil when he heard the door close.

“Hey,” he said, shooting off his final dart, which hit and stuck square in the middle of the “o” in “Monday.” “You okay?”

Phil didn’t really look okay; he was smiling at Clint, but otherwise he looked tense and miserable, red-eyed and ruffled. Clint wanted to go over there and pet and soothe him, but they were still at work, so he contented himself with doing a modified backflip off the couch, rolling to his feet as attractively as possible, and crossing the room to put himself well inside Phil’s personal space bubble.

“I’m not the one who got shot at today,” Phil said. “I’m fine.”

Clint knew from experience that Phil much preferred being shot at himself to having his agents be shot at, but he didn’t call Phil on the inaccuracy. “You about ready to go?” The sooner he got Phil off base and back to somewhere with privacy and a big bed, the better.

“We’re on stand-down for 48 hours,” Phil told him. “Would you like—”

“I would absolutely like,” Clint interrupted. “Assuming that the end of that sentence was something like ‘to come home with me and see how many times you can make me come in two days.’”

“Something like that,” Phil said, and his smile looked a little more solid. “Come on, let’s go.”

* * *

 

Phil got one of the motor pool drivers to take them back to his place, as neither one of them felt like dealing with the subway. They sat together in the back of the town car; when Clint left his hand invitingly in the middle of the seat, Phil took it and held on with surprising force. Clint rubbed over Phil’s knuckles with his thumb, looking over in concern. This wasn’t the place to have a personal discussion—it was just a normal car, with no soundproofing between them and the driver—but he was starting to wonder if Phil needed something different from the nice post-mission adrenaline-fueled sex Clint had been planning on. If maybe he needed something special, the way Clint had after his mission in Nicaragua.

Clint would be more than willing to bundle Phil up in a blanket and feed him nibbles and stroke his hair, but somehow he didn’t think that would be as effective on Phil as it had been on him. The tension he could see in Phil’s shoulders, the strain on his face, weren’t from physical fatigue. It wasn’t just anger, either, though Phil was obviously pissed as hell at Agent Donnell; Phil was actually pretty good at processing anger, working through it and letting it go, especially once he’d expressed his displeasure through the medium of damning AARs that would be part of someone’s Permanent Record.

Clint frowned a little to himself, bouncing his leg to try to bleed off a little energy as he picked at the puzzle that was Phil’s emotional state. He couldn’t be that torn up over how things turned out, because nobody was that seriously hurt and the mission objectives had been completed. Not ideally, granted—the screw-up at the end was completely unnecessary—but that was on Donnell, not Phil; it wasn’t Phil’s failure to—wait.

Phil had spent the whole week trying to influence Donnell into making good decisions, and Donnell had spent the week throwing Phil’s advice back in his face and making other, shittier decisions. Phil had held back, had let Donnell make his own mistakes, and hadn’t stepped in until— _ah_.

Until Alvarez was shot and Clint was scrambling to cover her. Until Phil’s agents (because let’s get real, any agents on an op were Phil’s agents whether or not he was officially in charge of them) were in danger—unnecessary danger, danger they would never have been in if Phil had been running the op.

Phil might not think the debacle was his fault; he’d certainly written a concise and scathing analysis pointing out all the ways it was Donnell’s fuck-up. But Clint would bet a boomerang arrow that Phil still felt responsible, either for not figuring out the magic words to get Donnell to listen to sense or for not stepping in sooner. And that was the sort of nagging thing that probably wasn’t going to be helped by cuddling on the couch.

Clint worried at the thought more, something hovering on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach, something Phil had said that might—

_Yes_. Clint had been reluctant to let Phil spoil him without getting sex out of it, and Phil had said that what he liked most was knowing that he was doing something to help Clint and seeing the results immediately, right under his hands. This week had been, like, the _opposite_ of that. Phil had spent the week trying to be responsible and getting thwarted; maybe he had, like… responsibility blue balls, or something. All the work but none of the satisfaction of seeing it go well.

Maybe the best way for Clint to take care of him would be to ask _him_ to take care of _Clint,_ and to make sure he could see it helping.

Clint’s dick gave a hopeful throb at the thought of all the ways Phil might go about taking care of him, and Clint felt his face curl into a grin. He probably looked like a lecherous gnome, but no big. Phil seemed to like it, anyway. He gave Phil’s hand a little squeeze, settled back into the seat in a way that let him spread his legs a little more, and spent the rest of the drive making plans.

They ordered dinner from their favorite place and ate it on the couch with the TV on, sitting close enough together that their legs and shoulders touched. It was a welcome change from the last week, but it hadn’t gone far enough, hadn’t started to coax Phil’s shoulders down or drive the tightness from his face. Phil’s tension was starting to make Clint even more jittery, like his body thought something was wrong with _them_ even though his mind knew that wasn’t true. To hell with that, though. Clint had _plans._ Good plans. Sexy plans.

While Phil was washing the dishes, Clint slipped into the bedroom and got his collar out of its drawer. Even after months, he still got excited when he took it out of the box: his skin prickling with anticipation, his breath coming a little quicker, his heart beating a little harder. He just stood there for a minute, rubbing the supple leather and enjoying the buzz in his veins, until he heard the water stop running.

Phil was just drying his hands when Clint made it out to the kitchen. Clint walked right up to him and held out his hand, collar draped over it.

“You don’t have to,” he told Phil, “but if you want to, I… I’d really like it if you’d do something for me.”

Phil’s eyes lit right the hell up. He even stood up straighter. Oh, yeah, Clint Barton, excellent boyfriend, right on target as usual. This was going to work.

“Of course, Clint,” Phil said, curling his hand protectively around Clint’s, trapping the collar between their palms. “Is this like—do you want the same as last time, or something else?”

Clint stepped in, bringing their bodies flush, and gave in to the temptation to nuzzle under the hinge of Phil’s jaw. It was one of his favorite spots. “Something else,” he said, dropping his voice to a low purr, trying to make it sound sexy instead of dumb. If the way Phil shivered against him was any indication, he’d hit the sweet spot. “I just, I’m still all keyed up, you know? I need to burn my extra energy off or something. And I’m horny as hell from being so close to you all week and not being able to do anything about it. And you—” he pressed a little wet kiss to the pulse point beneath his mouth—“shit, Phil, you were such a boss today. Everything I needed, you were right there for me. I didn’t have to worry, I didn’t have to plan, I could just ask for what I needed and you’d have it, like we were sharing a brain or something.”

“You should never have been in that situation in the first place,” Phil said, his voice twisting unhappily.

“Sometimes people are assholes, Phil. You can’t stop assholes from being assholes. But I didn’t worry. I knew you’d have my back, and you did. Mine, and Alvarez’s, and even fucking Donnell’s. You pulled it off for us.” He kissed Phil again, nudged their hips together a little bit. “I didn’t have to think, I could just _be_.” He pulled back, meeting Phil’s eyes, putting all his sincerity in his voice. “I think that’s one reason why we’re so good together,” he said. “You _know_ me, you know what I need, just as much in here as out there. You pay attention; you care.”

Phil wrapped his free arm around Clint’s waist, pulling him in closer, brushing his lips over the short hair at Clint’s temple. “Of course I do,” he murmured. “You’re _important_.”

Clint had to kiss him again. “Tonight, I… I want you to blindfold me,” he said. They hadn’t tried that yet, though they’d been easing into it lately. Clint depended so heavily on his vision in the field that he still got a little nervous if he couldn’t see; for the same reason, though, closing his eyes made Clint feel exhilarated and free, and he wanted to explore that feeling further. Tonight would be a perfect time, he thought, for both of them. It was easier for Clint to take something he wanted if he knew it was good for Phil too.

“Clint,” Phil said, and his voice had gone rough, “you don’t have to do that. I know it’s hard for you.”

“That’s why I want to,” Clint said. “I’ve wanted to for a while. If it doesn’t work out tonight like I think it will, no harm, no foul; I’ll say so, and you’ll take it off and do something different.” He kissed Phil’s throat again, reassuring. “I promise, I won’t let you do anything I don’t like. But I want to do this with you, Phil. I want you to call the shots. Put me down where all I have to do is obey you, and make me _fly._ I think we both need this tonight.”

Phil drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay,” he said, and picked up Clint’s collar, pausing to kiss him softly before drawing the smooth leather around Clint’s throat. “Okay,” he said again, and kissed the skin above the collar, like he did every time, their own little ritual. When he straightened up again, Clint could practically see him setting aside the worries of the day, his focus narrowing and sharpening and falling full on Clint. It was like stepping under a heat lamp.

This was going to be _awesome_. Clint Barton 1, shitty mission 0. Home team advantage, oh yeah.

“Take off your shoes, take care of anything you need to, and meet me in the bedroom,” Phil said, and Clint shivered at the promise in his voice. He was a little nervous, but it was good nervous. Like, excited-nervous. He practically sprinted away, just to burn some of the energy out of his muscles, and he heard Phil chuckle to himself as he went.

Best. Idea. _Ever_.

* * *

When Clint padded barefoot into the bedroom, Phil was already there. He’d turned the heat up a little, and changed into sweatpants—sweatpants and _nothing else_ , and Clint pretty much wanted to teleport over and nibble all up and down that gorgeous chest, but he forced himself to wait. They’d started; this was Phil’s show, now. There was some stuff on the bed, and an old sheet spread over it that was probably covering some towels for easy cleanup later. Clint didn’t worry too much about that, too caught up in the perfect way the lamplight gilded the curves of muscle in Phil’s arms.

Phil looked up and smiled at him. He already looked better, the lines of tension smoothed from his face, and Clint felt a sense of deep personal pride at how well his plan was going. “You ready?” Phil asked.

“ _So_ ready.” Clint rolled up on the balls of his feet a few times, enjoying the flex of his calf muscles and the hungry gleam in Phil’s eyes. Phil walked right up to him, curling a big hand around the back of his neck and gripping just tight enough to make Clint shiver before pulling him in for a leisurely kiss. He kept it pretty restrained, no humping or groping, no contact at all except for their mouths and Phil’s hand, but it was enough to settle Clint down a little, to take him another notch or two toward that warm, floaty place where time stopped being relevant and Phil was the entire world.

Phil pulled back, and waited until Clint opened his eyes and looked at him. “Take off your shirt,” he said, lifting his hand. Clint stripped off his tee and tossed it into the hamper without looking, just to make Phil smile.

Phil skimmed a hand down Clint’s side, letting it rest on his waist just above the top of his jeans. “Do you still want the blindfold?”

“Yes,” Clint said, stomach flipping a little, nervous but excited. “Just, ah, don’t leave while it’s on, okay? It’ll be fine as long as you stay with me.”

“I promise,” Phil said, leaning in for another gentle kiss. “And remember, if it stops working for you—”

“I’ll let you know,” Clint promised.

Phil smiled. “Then close your eyes,” he said.

Clint closed his eyes.

The blindfold was quilted satin, smooth and soft and cool against Clint’s skin. Phil adjusted the straps carefully around his head, making sure they weren’t pulling his hair or catching on his ears. “Open your eyes,” Phil said, when he was done. “How does that feel?”

“Feels fine,” Clint said. He opened his eyes to velvet darkness, and couldn’t hold back a sharp little breath, a tiny moment of vertigo at the disconnect.

Phil’s hands wrapped around his biceps, warm and a little rough, solid and grounding. “Okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, just needed to get used to it,” Clint said, feeling himself settle at Phil’s touch.

“Just stand here for me,” Phil said, “and hold position if I move you, all right? I’m going to undress you now.”

“Sounds like a plan, boss.”

Phil’s hands left his arms with an affectionate pat. The place where they had been felt colder by comparison, the fine hairs standing up. It was strange; he knew Phil’s bedroom intimately, he could get up in the dark of night and make it to the bathroom and back unscathed, but something about the blindfold made it seem like he could be anywhere. There was a swoop in his guts that couldn’t decide whether it was going to be good or bad, and for a long moment Clint wasn’t sure if this would work out after all.

Then Phil unfastened the button of Clint’s jeans, and he was back again, in the cozy warm room where he’d never known anything but love and joy and safety, tethered there by the feel of Phil’s hands. He let out a soft huff of breath, pressing forward a little into the touch.

“Easy,” Phil soothed, deft fingers sliding down his zipper. “I’m here.”

If Clint had planned ahead a little better, he’d have worn something easier-access than jeans, but he’d been thinking more about aesthetics than access when he got dressed. It worked out all right, though; Phil took his time peeling Clint out of them, caressing the skin he bared, though not getting particularly sexual yet. When he’d finally gotten the jeans and Clint’s shorts down around his ankles, he had Clint lift his feet one at a time so he could get them off, leaving Clint totally naked except for his collar and the blindfold.

It wasn’t like Clint had never been naked like this before, but it was different with the blindfold on; he felt _more_ naked, somehow, like he might get touched anywhere at any time and not know it was coming. He felt like his skin was reaching out, trying to see instead of his eyes.

“You’re doing great,” Phil told him, stroking down Clint’s spine to cup his ass. “I’d like you to wear your cuffs for me; what do you think?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. He loved wearing the cuffs; they made him feel owned, in a good way, settled and treasured and safe, their gentle pressure the next best thing to Phil’s hands. “Yeah, please, that’d be good.”

“Take two normal steps forward,” Phil told him. Clint could feel the rug under his feet; they were right next to the bed.

Phil slid his own bare foot over to nudge against Clint’s, standing close enough that Clint could feel the heat radiating off him, comforting and exciting at the same time. “Right hand, please.”

Clint held out his hand, and Phil took it, raised it up a little. Clint could feel the puff of his breath, then the tender press of his lips, and then cool, buttery leather wrapped around his wrist.

Phil didn’t put the whole set on this time, just the wrist and ankle cuffs, but that was enough; they were snug and soothing around him, and the tug of each buckle seemed to smooth him out a little more, transmuting his nervous energy into something heavier, softer, more sensual. Phil talked to him the whole time, keeping him present with his voice and his touch, and by the time the last cuff was in place Clint had started to feel dreamy and blurred, like he was a candy bar melting around the edges. Phil was reacting, too, his voice getting deeper and slower, his touches more lingering and languid.

“There, that’s it,” Phil said, hands stroking over Clint’s body, soothing him and perking him up at the same time, like the touches were preparation for something more to come. In the dark behind the blindfold, everything Phil did was more intense than usual. “You look amazing, Clint. That color is beautiful against your skin.” He kissed Clint’s shoulder. “I’m going to put you on the bed, now.”

Phil took his elbow and guided him up onto the bed. “On your stomach, please,” he said. “A little more to your left. That’s it, perfect. Here, hold your head up for me.” Clint obeyed, and heard the soft sound of cloth brushing cloth.

“There’s a pillow under your head,” Phil told him. “Make yourself comfortable; find a position you can hold for a while.”

“Yessir,” Clint murmured. He could feel soft, smooth sheets under his bare skin, and he shifted around, hugging the pillow and settling so that his face was turned toward Phil.

“That’s good, Clint,” Phil told him, stroking over Clint’s shoulders again. Clint let out a content little hum, spreading his legs a little more.

“You gonna fuck me, boss?”

Phil patted his ass. “Maybe, maybe not. That’s for me to worry about, all right? All you have to do is let me take care of you. Think you can do that?”

“Mm,” Clint said, arching into the touch. “Yeah, sounds good, babe.”

“Thank you,” Phil said, his voice achingly sincere, and Clint preened a little. “I’m going to put some oil on your back.”

Clint heard the click of a bottle cap, and then wet, slick noises, and then Phil’s hands were on his shoulders, hot and slippery and perfect. “Any sore spots?”

Clint thought about it. “Right side,” he said. “Landed on it. Not bad, though.”

Phil’s fingers traced lightly over his back, spreading oil over his skin. Clint could smell sandalwood and vanilla as the oil warmed, familiar and soothing from any number of massages they’d given each other.

“I can see a little bruise coming up on your hip, and another on your shoulder,” Phil said. He touched each spot, so gently it didn’t hurt even a little. “I’ll go easy, but don’t let me hurt you.”

“Won’t,” Clint promised, letting his eyes slide shut under the blindfold. The bed shifted as Phil moved to straddle Clint, the soft cotton of his sweats comforting against the bare skin of Clint’s hips.

Phil’s hands felt so good, warm and tender and strong. Clint had always loved his hands, loved looking at them and feeling them, being touched by them. It didn’t matter if it was a handshake or a hand job, when Phil touched him, Clint could always feel the love behind it. It had been surprising at first; it was familiar, now, but still precious, a gift he hadn’t known to ask for.

Phil wasn’t going for deep tissue massage, nothing that would hurt or leave Clint sore. He kept his touch just firm enough to feel good and warm the skin. He liked to do that sometimes, especially at the beginning of a long or complicated scene; Clint wondered if it was his own version of a transitional activity, or if he just liked the way Clint looked all oiled up. He was always happy to bask in Phil’s attention, either way.

Clint wasn’t sure how long Phil worked. He added more oil once or twice, but Clint wasn’t really paying attention, just letting the contact blur into a soft golden cloud of sensation. Clint was half-hard, but the urgency he’d been feeling earlier had eased; it was enough, just then, to be naked and safe in the warm dark, under Phil’s hands.

Eventually, Phil shuffled lower on the bed. “Spread your legs for me.” Clint obeyed, and felt Phil move, the mattress shifting as he settled so that he was straddling one of Clint’s thighs, one knee on the outside, brushing Clint’s skin, and the other planted between Clint’s legs.

“Good,” Phil said, and he dragged his slick hands down, spreading the oil over Clint’s ass and the tops of his thighs.

“Mmm, s’good,” Clint said, his mouth half buried in the pillow.

Phil’s fingers flexed, digging into the meat of Clint’s glutes a little, pulling his cheeks further apart. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clint sighed.

“I want you to feel good,” Phil said. “I want to make you feel amazing, I want to take such good care of you.”

“You do,” Clint promised, letting himself push back a little into the pressure of Phil’s touch. “Phil, you _are._ ”

Phil’s hands tightened on Clint’s ass. “Can I—” he let out a harsh breath. “No, never mind.”

He fell silent, not moving, and Clint briefly considered calling a timeout and taking off the blindfold so he could see what was happening on his face. “Hey,” Clint said. “Whatever it is, Phil, just ask me, I promise I won’t be mad or whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“It’s selfish,” Phil said, which, honestly, probably meant that whatever he wanted was exactly what Clint should try and get him to do.

“I like it when I can do things for you, too, you know,” Clint said. “Ask me.”

“I want to push you,” Phil blurted. “I want to… to overwhelm you. I want to tease you until all you can think about is coming, and then after I let you come I want to keep going. I want to make you get hard again and come again. I want to play your body like an instrument, Clint, until you fall apart for me, and then I want to put you back together.”

Clint shivered, his cock throbbing at the roughness of Phil’s voice and the unconscious clutch of his hands. “On what planet would I ever say ‘no’ to that?” he demanded.

“We’ve never played that intensely before,” Phil said. “It’s… some people don’t like that level of sensation for that long.”

“Well if I turn out not to like it, I’ll tell you,” Clint said, pushing his ass back into Phil’s grip. “ But for now I’m saying yes. Fuck yes, even. _Please_ yes, that sounds amazing.”

“I… okay,” Phil said. “Okay.” He let go of Clint’s ass, then smoothed over it gently; Clint wondered if he had handprints. That would be cool. He felt the bed shift as Phil got up, though he left a hand on Clint’s skin as he moved to the side. Clint could hear the rustling of him getting rid of his pants.

“I want to move you around a little,” Phil said, his voice stronger, more sure. “Get up on your knees.”

Clint obeyed, glad for Phil’s steadying hand as he got up, settling into a kneel.

“Good,” Phil said. “Now, lean forward and rest your head on the bed again, however feels comfortable.”

Clint did as he was told, leaning his torso forward and resting his head on the pillow, his arms stretched out in front of him. He could feel a good stretch in his back and hips, the posture tilting his ass up a little, spreading it slightly open. He felt exposed, a little embarrassed when he thought how he must look with his ass higher than his head, but it felt good, too, especially when Phil ran a finger down between his cheeks.

“Perfect,” Phil said, and Clint wasn’t sure if he was talking about Clint’s posture or his asshole or what, but he was good with any or all of that if it would keep that darkly satisfied purr in Phil’s voice. “Hold still.”

“Yes, si—ah!” Clint yelped, losing track of everything in his head except for the electric sensation of Phil taking firm hold of Clint’s cheeks in his big hands, pulling them apart, and licking a broad, wet stripe over his hole.

It was only the second time they’d done this. The first had been on the tail end of a long mission where they’d been separated for nearly six weeks, and therefore hadn’t lasted long before Phil had obeyed Clint’s demands to “stop fucking around back there and get _in_ me already, fuck, I’m dying over here.” (It had been a _long_ six weeks.) He hardly remembered anything about the act specifically, the whole evening running together into a spectacular blur of pleasure and relief in his memory.

This time was different. Phil worked over his entrance slowly, with deliberation, as though trying to learn him by feel, alternating broad, soft licks with dainty little strokes with the tip of his tongue; it felt like he was trying to trace the outline of every furl of skin. Clint trembled. He wasn’t restrained by anything but Phil’s command, and he clutched the pillow under his head with both arms, burying his cries in the case.

Phil pulled back, his breath cold on wet skin. “Don’t try to be quiet,” he said, and that _voice_ , holy fuck, his voice made Clint want to open himself even further, if such a thing had been possible. “Please let me hear you.”

Clint turned his head, forcing his mouth clear of the pillow. “Yessir,” he panted, and Phil squeezed his ass again, approving, driving a grunt out of Clint’s chest.

“Perfect,” Phil said, and returned to his self-appointed task. He spent longer than Clint had thought possible on the outside; not a centimeter of skin from the base of Clint’s spine to the back of his balls was left untouched. Phil licked and sucked, nudged with his nose, nipped with his teeth, tiny bites just hard enough to threaten to sting. With the blindfold on, Clint’s senses were consumed with what Phil was doing: the wet noises of Phil’s tongue, the soft, hungry sounds he made, like _he_ was the one getting serviced, the way the tender skin tensed with the stretch as Phil pulled his ass open so he could get ever closer. When Phil finally, _finally_ plunged his tongue into Clint’s hole, Clint made a graceless, startled noise, like an _animal_ , like something off a fuckin’ _farm_ , and Phil grunted deep in his chest and pushed further into him, jabbing with his tongue. The darkness of the blindfold made everything feel better, feel somehow _more_. Clint’s hole ached, and the ache was amazing. His cock was full, the skin hot and tight, wet at the head. He could feel it bouncing with the force of Phil’s movements, sometimes brushing on the sheets and making him whine, but never touched, never stimulated. Clint wanted to come, and he never wanted to come, because he didn’t want it to stop. Fortunately, he didn’t have to decide.

He only realized that he was saying all this out loud when Phil pulled back, leaving Clint’s hole to flex and twitch in the cold air. “That’s right, baby,” he said. “Leave all the decisions to me. You don’t have to decide anything, you just have to let me take care of you.”

“Please,” Clint said. He hadn’t moved his body, but he was holding the pillow so tightly his hands ached. He thought he might get hard every time he smelled Phil’s detergent from then on. “Sir, please.”

“Please what, Clint?” Phil let go of Clint’s ass, and rubbed his hands soothingly over Clint’s back and hips when he made a protesting sound.

“Please more?”

“Of course,” Phil said, and Clint heard the click of a plastic bottle cap and nearly sobbed in anticipation. “I love to give you things, baby, you only have to ask for what you want.” A cool finger, slick with lube, circled Clint’s hole, amazing and not nearly enough.

“You, please, let me feel you please Phil, please come back?” The only part of Phil that was touching him was that teasing finger, dipping inside him, tugging on his rim. It wasn’t enough; Clint couldn’t see Phil, he couldn’t feel enough of Phil, and the noise he made was less pleasure and more a sudden, dizzying anxiety. Phil must have picked up on the difference, because he moved immediately, pressing up close to Clint, draping himself over Clint’s back, nestling his big hard cock between Clint’s thighs. He reached around, curling his arms around Clint and coaxing his grip on the pillow loose to entwine their fingers, and nuzzled his cheek against Clint’s, tender and sweet. Clint moaned, the feeling of vertigo driven away by Phil, warm fuzzy safe amazing Phil, who whispered love into Clint’s ear and brushed kisses into his hair until he settled and calmed and slumped back into his pillow.

“Better now?” Phil murmured between kisses. “I’m sorry I scared you, sweetheart, I promise I won’t leave you alone.”

“I’m okay,” Clint said. It took a minute for the words to make their way from his brain to his mouth. “Sorry, I don’t—that was weird.”

Phil kissed his ear again. “Everything’s more intense when you can’t see,” he said. His voice was so gentle, soothing and reassuring, almost as good as the press of his weight on Clint’s back. “Do you want to take the blindfold off?”

Clint thought about it, but… there was something electric about the velvet darkness, the way everything Phil did was a surprise, the way Clint’s whole body was sensitized and eager. The way he became completely reliant on Phil, as long as he could keep himself from tensing up, trying to be prepared. “I want to keep trying,” he said. “Only… I need to know you’ve got me, okay? I think I can let go, as long as I know you’ve got me.”

Phil made a low, eager noise, his chest rumbling against Clint’s back. “I’ve got you,” he promised. “I won’t leave this bed until we’re done.”

Clint rolled his shoulders, just to feel the pressure of Phil on top of him a little more. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Keep going.”

“I’m sitting up,” Phil told him. “I’ll be right back.” He let his hands trail over Clint’s skin as he moved, tracing up Clint’s arms and down his flanks. Phil kept his legs pressed against the backs of Clint’s thighs, his cock brushing damp against the back of Clint’s balls. The bottle of lube clicked again, more liquid sounds, and then Phil’s hands were back on his ass, pulling him further open, and Clint felt the blunt slick head of Phil’s cock on his hole.

“Yessss,” he hissed, his whole body rippling with the glorious press and stretch. He was open enough from the rimming that it wasn’t uncomfortable, but not so open he couldn’t still really feel it as Phil entered him in a single long, deliberate motion.

Once Phil was all the way in, his body flush up against Clint’s, he rubbed his hands over Clint’s back and shoulders, making the skin flush and tingle. “I’m here,” he said, and gave a little thrust, just a quick nudge of his cock to catch Clint’s attention—as though Clint’s attention could possibly be anywhere _else_. “Feel me inside you, I’ve got you, Clint.”

“I think— _agh_ , that feels good—I’m the one who’s got you, sir,” Clint managed, his breath quickening. He clenched around Phil as hard as he could to punctuate the statement, and Phil huffed a laugh, giving Clint’s ass a playful tap.

“ _Do_ you now,” he said, his voice warm and predatory. “We’ll see.” He bent forward, his cock shifting deliciously inside Clint with the movement, and kissed Clint between the shoulder blades before straightening back up and taking firm hold of Clint’s hips with both hands. He withdrew as slowly as he’d entered, stopping with the head of his cock nestled just inside. Clint whimpered. The slow drag felt amazing, but it wasn’t enough; Clint’s body was buzzed with anticipation, all his senses reaching for it. Staying still—not pushing back onto Phil’s cock, not flipping them over and riding him, not doing anything but waiting for whatever Phil would give him—was getting more impossible by the second, but he wanted to. He wanted to give Phil the gift of his self-control, to wait for whatever Phil wanted to do.

“It’s hard, isn’t it,” Phil said tenderly, his thumbs tracing gentle arcs over Clint’s hips. “It’s hard, waiting.”

“Yes, sir.” It came out more a whine than Clint had intended, high in his throat, strained from the tension of _not moving_ that was taking up all Clint’s will.

“I know you want to move,” Phil continued, “and you’re not. For me. Because I want you to be still.”

“For you,” Clint said, and couldn’t help clenching down around Phil again, just to feel the bulk of him, holding him open. He wanted that inside him, he _wanted_ it.

“I love that,” Phil said, and his hands tightened again. “I don’t have to bind you, I don’t have to make you. You’ll bind yourself at my word. You’re _incredible_ , Clint. I’m in awe of you.”

Clint’s breath caught, almost a sob. Even months in to Phil’s say-what-he-felt campaign, sometimes Phil would still come out with something that just turned Clint inside out, left him defenseless and aching with love. How… how could Phil just up and say things like that? It was like living in a movie, being wooed by some kind of romance novel hero, only Phil was real and everything he said was one hundred percent sincere.

“Phil,” he said, and his voice came out thick with longing. “Phil, I…” he trailed off, not even sure what he wanted to say. Fuck me, fill me, use me. Hold me. Have me. All of the above. “I’m yours.”

Phil shivered, hard enough that Clint could feel it everywhere they were still touching. “ _Clint_.”

“L—love you,” Clint said, and he was starting to tremble with how much he wanted to move, but he wouldn’t. For Phil. “Trust you.”

It was like a dam breaking. Phil plowed back into him in a single powerful thrust, then started fucking him fast and hard, using his hands on Clint’s hips to angle him back to meet each thrust. It was too much, too fast, for Clint to really keep track of after such a long time waiting; everything blended into waves of pleasure, punctuated by Phil’s hot grip on his skin, the slap of their bodies meeting, the glorious relentless onslaught of Phil’s cock rubbing up inside him, filling him with heat and ache and jolts of bliss like starbursts underneath his skin. Clint thought he was making noise, grunts and cries fucked out of him, but he couldn’t be bothered to care if he sounded stupid or anything. His entire world had narrowed down to Phil, Phil and his cock and his hands and his harsh breathing; Clint’s body was pliant, soft and open to take and take and take.

“This—what you—wanted?” Phil said, his voice gone low and feral, punctuated by the jolts of breath that huffed out of him as their hips slammed together over and over again.

“Ye—ah! Yes,” Clint moaned. His whole body was alive, like it was maybe glowing, skin hot and slippery with sweat, making Phil’s hands skid a little with every thrust.

“You gonna come?”

Clint’s cock was so hard it hurt, still bobbing between his thighs, so sensitive the air currents made him whine through his teeth. Phil’s cock felt so amazing inside him, so good. He could feel the orgasm building and coiling in his balls, but even the flashes of pleasure when Phil nailed his prostate weren’t quite enough to tip him over without some kind of touch to his cock.

“Ca—an’t,” Clint gasped, his words broken, heart hammering.

“You want to?” Phil never slowed his pace.

“Please!” Clint wailed. “Please sir please sir Phil please _please_ make me come!”

“Soon,” Phil gasped, and then pushed in, hard, grinding up into Clint’s ass, and his cock jerked inside Clint as he came. Clint could almost come himself at the feeling of it inside him, but it wasn’t enough and Phil wasn’t moving anymore, he said he’d make Clint come, why wasn’t he _moving?_

“Sir,” he begged. “Sir, I can’t—I need—you _said_ —”

“I did,” Phil said, panting, and he ran his hands soothingly over Clint’s sweaty back, raising goosebumps in his wake. “I will, I promise. Can you wait a little longer, Clint? For me?”

Clint whined, his whole body wanting to say _no,_ no, do it now, make me come _now_ , I can’t wait!

For Phil, though. Phil wanted him to.

“I—” his breath caught, and he swallowed hard, fingers digging into the pillow, hips flexing involuntarily as though he could magically summon up something to touch his neglected cock, anything. He felt like he could almost rub off against a stiff wind, at this point.

“Clint?”

Phil wanted him to wait.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

_“Good boy,”_ Phil growled. “So good, Clint, so perfect, you try so hard for me. I love it.” He kissed Clint’s back and lingered, licking at his sweaty skin, sucking a hickey into the thick muscle of his shoulder while his cock slowly softened. When he finally slipped out of Clint’s body, Clint couldn’t hold back a whimper of loss.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Phil said. “I won’t leave you empty, baby, I’ll take care of you.” Clint heard the lube bottle again, and then felt Phil’s fingers at his sore hole, gently stroking.

“What d’you need me t’do,” he mumbled.

“Just stay there, sweetheart,” Phil said. “I’m keeping you full, like I promised. I’ll want you again, later, I need to keep you all soft and wet and open for me. I want you to hold my come inside, okay? I’ll plug you up to help you, but try to keep it in.”

“Okay,” Clint said, a fresh wave of sweat breaking over his skin at the thought of it, of being all full of Phil’s come, keeping it inside for him until Phil wanted to make use of his hole again. It made him feel amazing, dirty and special, owned and treasured, to be the one Phil wanted that way. Another nudge of fingers—and that was Phil pushing his come back inside Clint’s body, holy fuck—and then there was another push, firmer and smoother, as Phil slid a plug inside, making Clint groan.

“There, now,” Phil said, his voice somehow hoarse and smug at the same time. “You took that so beautifully, sweetheart. Thank you.”

Clint was starting to drift. The relentless ache of unfulfilled arousal had receded a little, blurring into the twinges of hard use in his ass, punctuated by Phil’s gentle caresses and his sweet words. He hummed happily.

“So patient,” Phil continued. “So perfect. The most amazing man I’ve ever known. The way you give yourself to me is the most beautiful sight on earth.”

“Y’r biased,” Clint slurred.

“Discerning,” Phil corrected. “Come on, baby, I’m going to help you turn over now.”

He helped Clint turn over onto his back, easing out his legs and arms, helping him stretch cramped muscles. Clint’s cock was still hard, his balls tight up against his body, twitching with every incidental whisper of contact as Phil settled him onto the bed again.

“There, now,” Phil said, leaning in to kiss Clint’s lips, the tip of his nose, the blindfold covering his eyes. He spread his hand out over Clint’s heart, still pounding in his chest like he’d been running. “There’s your beautiful face.” His thumb brushed one of Clint’s nipples, drawing a soft sound from him. “I promised you I’d make you come, and I’ll keep that promise,” Phil said. “But I want us to try something new together.”

“Sir?” Clint wasn’t sure he could think of anything new they hadn’t tried—at least, nothing that wouldn’t take a lot more prep or props than he thought they had time for that evening.

“I want to touch you,” Phil said, tracing idly over the muscles of Clint’s chest. “All over your gorgeous body. I want to pleasure you, take you right up to the edge. And I want you to stop me before I make you come. I want to do that again and again, as many times as you can stand. I want to wind your body up so tight you can’t think of anything but me, until I decide you’ve had enough, and then I want to make you come so hard you _cry._ ”

“Ffffuck,” Clint gasped, his hips rutting up uselessly into the air. “Not gonna… take much, if you keep talking like that.”

Phil flicked his nipple with a thumbnail, and it thrummed through Clint’s body like the ringing of a bell. “Oh, I don’t know,” Phil said, and the low promise in his voice curled through Clint like smoke. “You might be surprised.”

Clint reached out, groping in the dark until his hand hit warm skin. “Seriously, though,” he said, shaking off a little of the sex-haze. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop; I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

Phil bent and kissed him, picking Clint’s hand up from his arm and twining their fingers together. “You could never ruin it,” he said, punctuating his words with brushes of lips across the parts of Clint’s face that the blindfold didn’t cover. “If you hold out until I make you come, or if you try to wait and can’t, or if you safeword, or if you just tell me you don’t want to do it. Any of those things—all of those things—they’re you, here with me, letting me take care of you, and that’s why I’m here. _That’s_ what I want.”

Clint squeezed Phil’s hand, pushing up from the pillow to capture his lips again, hitting off-center and messy but not caring. “Okay, then,” he said, when they’d finally moved apart again. “Let’s try it. What do I need to do?”

“Just lie back and relax,” Phil said. “When you feel that you’re about to come, but before it’s too late to stop yourself, say ‘close.’ That’s all you have to do; I’ll take care of the rest.”

“All right, then,” Clint said, making a _tah-dah_ sort of gesture vaguely dickwards, like some kind of sex-game Vanna White. “Go for it, babe.”

Phil laughed, the sound rich and warm, like hot chocolate and champagne and fuzzy blankets, and Clint was so caught up in basking in it that he yelped in shock when Phil—still laughing—licked right over his cock from root to tip. Clint thought for a minute he was going to have to stop Phil right away, but after the first lick Phil backed off a little, keeping his hands moving over Clint’s body but staying away from his cock. He was a master of teasing, going close to and around Clint’s most sensitive areas but never touching them, until Clint’s nipples and his dick and his balls felt hot and swollen and dying for contact and the whisper of Phil’s breath was enough to make Clint arch and groan.

“There we go,” Phil said. His voice was quiet, coaxing, but there was a thread of tension underneath that Clint could feel. “I think we’re ready to begin.”

_“Begin?”_ Clint wheezed, but Phil just chuckled, dark with promise, and brushed a fingertip over each of Clint’s nipples. He arched into the sensation, a rumble of pleasure vibrating in his chest.

“That’s it,” Phil told him, rubbing gently. “Let yourself feel it.” He kept one hand busy with Clint’s chest, alternating between his nipples, and let the other one trace down his torso, skating over the ridges of muscle to comb through Clint’s pubic hair. His cock jerked a little, as though it was hoping Phil’s proximity meant it would be getting some action soon.

“Not quite yet,” Phil said, amused, and gave the head of Clint’s cock a friendly tap, not enough stimulation to do anything but taunt him. He moved his hand further down, and Clint tried to spread his thighs further apart, because whatever Phil was aiming to do down there, he was _all for it_.

Phil curled warm fingers gently around Clint’s balls, cupping them in his hand and rolling them a little in his hand. “These are so full,” he said. “Heavy. Swollen.” He traced the outline of each testicle lightly with his fingernail, and Clint made an indistinct noise in his throat. It felt incredible, the lightest contact magnified by how long Phil had made Clint wait for it.

“How long has it been since you came, Clint?” Phil asked, reaching up to flick a nipple.

“Night— _hgnnh_ —night before we left,” Clint said. “When you, ah, you blew me in the hall right before I went home, said you, you’d give me something to tide me over.”

“And that was the last time?” There was a new note in Phil’s voice, something purring and possessive that sent shivers down Clint’s spine. “You didn’t steal a moment in the shower? Take advantage of your few minutes alone?”

“N—no, sir,” Clint said. He wanted to move, to push himself harder into one of those amazing hands, but he held still. _For Phil,_ he thought. _Because he asked me to_ ; the thought curled hot in his belly.

“Why not?”

“At first, I was hoping there’d be a way we could get away together,” Clint said. “Then when I saw that wasn’t gonna happen, I just… I didn’t want it like that, just to get it out the way, not when you were right there reminding me of how much better it is with you. I like to wait, sometimes, you know? I thought maybe, maybe you’d like if I waited for you.”

“I do,” Phil said, tightening his grip around Clint’s balls a little. It zipped straight to his cock, and he caught himself just before he could push up into the pressure. “I like it very much, Clint, knowing that you’d rather wait for what I’ll give you than take pleasure for yourself. I think that deserves a reward.”

“Thank fuck—I mean, thank you sir.”

Phil chuckled, and Clint heard the lube bottle again. “Don’t thank me quite yet.” He wrapped his wet hand loosely around the base of Clint’s cock and pulled up, once, quick and light, hardly any pressure at all. Clint couldn’t stop himself from whining, his ass and thighs all going rock-hard with the effort of not thrusting up off the bed, chasing after that maddening hand.

“Yes,” Phil said, “that’s it. Hold yourself back. Let it come to you.” He did it again, the stroke of his hand too fast and his grip too loose to pull the coiling orgasm out of Clint’s body. He set up a ragged pattern, stroking Clint’s cock once or twice then going back to play with his balls or rub his nipples, pushing him closer and closer to the edge a centimeter at a time. Finally, one stroke brushed his cockhead just right and he yelped, feeling it looming inside him.

“Close!”

Phil pulled away immediately, laying his hands instead on Clint’s trembling thighs. “Good boy,” he said, stroking the skin under his hands. “That’s exactly right, good job.”

Clint grunted, all his energy focused on resisting the urge to move that was pounding through him. “Phil,” he said, pleading. He wasn’t sure what he needed Phil to do besides _something_.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Phil reassured him. He ran his hands up Clint’s flanks, pressing in enough that the touch was grounding instead of ticklish. “You’re the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

“Kind of a low bar,” Clint said, his breathing starting to smooth out as his arousal ebbed.

“I don’t know,” Phil said, mock-thoughtful. “I _did_ get to watch you free-climb the side of a freight depot; it was pretty inspiring.”

Clint laughed, and he felt Phil move his hands to rest on top of his belly.

“How are you feeling?” Phil asked. “Back from the edge?”

Clint hummed, taking inventory. He was still buzzing with arousal, but it had settled enough that he wasn’t on the verge anymore. “Yeah.”

He felt a rustle of movement, then Phil’s nose nudged his skin as Phil bent to kiss him, lingering and sweet.

“Good,” Phil said. “I want to keep playing with you.”

Clint lost all sense of time pretty soon after that. Phil drove him to the edge over and over, teasing him with hands and lips and body until Clint was trembling, his skin three sizes too small for the roiling _want_ inside him. Each time, it was harder for Clint to force himself to call out “Close!”, to stop short of the finish line that every molecule of his body was straining toward. But each time, Phil soothed him down with gentle touches and crooned loving nonsense and praise into the darkness, telling him how good he was, how sweet and obedient. Telling him what an honor it was to have the gift of his submission. Telling him… telling him…

“I love you,” Phil said fiercely. He sucked one of Clint’s aching nipples, just for a few seconds, then pulled back far enough that his breath cooled the wet crinkled skin. “Look at you, Clint—fuck, you’re so beautiful. You’re flushed all the way down your chest.” He laid a line of warm kisses down Clint’s sternum. “I can feel the heat of it on my lips. And your hair,” he ran his fingers through, staying away from the straps of the blindfold, and Clint whimpered. “You’re soaked, baby, you’ve let me make you sweat.” Another kiss, on the hinge of Clint’s jaw. “I’d be lost without you.” A soft nibble on his earlobe. “You deserve my best, Clint, everything I have.” A long stretch of time sucking the point of Clint’s collarbone. “I used to think that my personal life was a distraction from work, but I was wrong. It makes me better, Clint, you make me _better_ , you’re so amazing.” It went on like that, for how long Clint couldn’t tell; everything Phil did had blurred together into a haze of pleasure and desire, while Clint had lost all thoughts except _don’t move_ and _don’t come_. In the darkness behind his blindfold, he was dimly aware of the tight grip of his hands—fisted in the sheets to keep them away from his own cock—and of the sobbing noise of his breath, the high and breathy little sounds he’d long since stopped trying to hold back.

Phil was playing with his balls again, gentle but merciless. Each tiny movement felt like it would be the one to push Clint over the line, but Clint knew better; he’d never been able to come without some kind of attention on his cock.

As though he’d heard Clint’s thoughts—or maybe Clint had been talking; he’d stopped being able to tell—Phil took another splurt of lube and gave another too-loose, too-fast pull to Clint’s cock. It was like—like some kind of circus trick, the flash-heat of an alcohol flame, and Clint keened through set teeth.

“Close!” he yelled, for the… fourth time? Fifth? He’d lost track. But this time, Phil didn’t move away, didn’t abandon Clint’s cock to pet and soothe him down. He put his hand back, a tighter grip around the base, and it felt amazingly, shatteringly good after the eternity of glancing touches.

“Close!” Clint said again. “Close close close fuck— _Phil_ —” Phil had given him another stroke, tighter and slower, and he’d broken out in goosebumps all down his arms and legs. “Gonna come if you—if—I’m—”

“Shhhh,” Phil said, his voice coaxing. “All you have to do is tell me, remember, sweetheart? You’re letting me decide when you come. Just tell me when you’re close, and let me give you your pleasure when I decide it’s time. Remember?”

“Y—yes.” Clint was burning, shaking, he was going to fucking cry or shout or levitate off the fucking bed in a minute. Phil had his hand at the base of his cock again, and this time the grip was tight, tight, _perfect_.

“Relax, Clint,” Phil breathed, and ran that glorious fist up Clint’s cock, calluses catching on the head just right, and Clint’s entire body seized up with the effort of not coming.

“Let go,” Phil said, and his other hand went to Clint’s balls. “Take what I’m giving you, come on, babe—” and he circled Clint’s cockhead with his palm, and that was it, Clint was _gone_ , fireworks and shooting stars in the dark behind the blindfold, his cock jerking while Phil stroked him through the orgasm, shooting so hard he thought he felt it hit his chin.

When he regained enough bodily awareness, he realized that Phil’s hand was still moving on his cock, coaxing shuddery little aftershocks out of him every few seconds. It wasn’t unusual for Phil to try to draw things out; he loved to watch Clint come, loved to see the evidence streaked all over their bodies, to trail his fingers through, hot and dirty. After a while, though, as Clint softened, the skin got more and more sensitive. He shifted uneasily, and Phil laid a steadying hand on his hip.

“Stop me if you need to,” Phil said, and his voice was rough-sounding, hungry. “Promise me.”

“Promise,” Clint murmured. He felt amazing, wrung-out and well-used and replete. Phil was the _best_.

“Thank you,” Phil said. He shifted, his movements jostling the mattress a little. “I’m going to get between your legs.”

Clint offered his hands, the fingers still stiff from clutching the sheets, and Phil braced himself as he moved. Clint could feel Phil’s hairy legs rasping against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He could feel the warmth of Phil’s bare body as he leaned forward, a hand on either side of Clint’s hips, and laid a soft, wet kiss at the base of Clint’s cock.

“Sir,” Clint protested. He was kind of a mess, sticky with come and lube. He didn’t want to mess Phil up.

“Don’t worry,” Phil said. “It’s the edible stuff.” He ran his tongue up Clint’s soft cock from root to tip, ending with a gentle little suck that made Clint gasp.

“I know,” Phil said, his voice indulgent. “I know, it’s so sensitive right now. You came for me so beautifully. But I’m greedy, sweetheart. I want to give you more.” He kissed Clint’s cock, delicately lapping a dribble of come out of the slit, and Clint shuddered all over, whining through his nose. It still felt good, but even the tiny, soft touches of Phil’s lips and tongue felt rough on his sensitized skin.

“Give me a color,” Phil said, soft but firm.

“Green, sir,” Clint managed.

“Good, Clint, tell me if it changes.” Clint could feel the heat of Phil’s body, the incidental brushes of skin as he shifted. He could hear Phil’s breath, heavy as though he’d been running, could hear small bitten-off sounds of pleasure as Phil cleaned off Clint’s softening cock with his tongue, the velvet rasp of it getting harder and harder to take as Clint came down from his orgasm.

If Phil had just kept sucking his dick, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad, but he was more creative than that; he moved around, mixed it up, moving away from Clint’s sticky groin to play with his sore balls, to suck love-bites into the crease of his hip, to toy with the end of the plug in Clint’s ass. He kept up a running commentary, his voice raspy and low as he punctuated kisses and nips with praise and filthy promises.

“Your cock is beautiful all the time,” Phil told him, picking it up off Clint’s belly and cradling it in one hand. “Hard, it’s a work of art, of course, but sometimes I think I like it best this way, soft and spent from pleasure.” He started at the base and worked his way up toward the head with long licks, pressing Clint’s flesh between his tongue and his callused fingers. “I can take the whole thing in my mouth, if I want to, safe and warm and mine.” He suited his actions to his words, pulling Clint’s soft cock into his mouth and sucking.

It was like nothing else Clint had ever felt, the entire length of him neatly contained in Phil’s mouth, cradled by his lush tongue; he’d always been a grower, so he wasn’t unmanageably long when he wasn’t hard. Phil did like to suck him erect, but that usually happened pretty fast once Clint was inside his mouth; he’d never before been able to just stay there and feel it. He could tell that Phil was being extremely gentle, but after being edged for so long, his nerves were on a hair-trigger. It was strange; it hurt, but the hurt felt good, pleasure and pain twining together through him until he shook. Phil seemed to love it, humming satisfaction deep in his chest with every whimper out of Clint’s mouth.

Clint didn’t know how long they stayed there, Phil’s wet mouth sweet torture on his cock, but finally Phil rolled his aching balls just right, sucked just right, and Clint sobbed aloud as he felt himself start to stiffen, a wave of blood plumping his cock between Phil’s lips.

Phil pulled back just enough to speak, “ _Yes_ , that’s it, baby, get hard for me,” he growled.

“H—hurts,” Clint said, his voice breaking. “Keep going.”

“Even though it hurts?” Phil pressed down on one of his love-bites, making Clint hiss at the sweet ache.

“Hurts good,” Clint tried to explain. “More.”

“As much as you want.” Phil took Clint’s cock in his mouth again, this time applying himself in earnest to getting Clint hard, sliding his mouth up and down, licking over the head and sucking on the tip. Clint’s body just gave up entirely, signals so confused that every movement felt good, even the ones that made him jerk and whine, and by the time Phil finally pulled off again, his cock was ready to go.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Phil said, and gave the head of Clint’s cock another soft, sucking kiss. It was one stimulation too far for Clint’s overloaded nerves, and he burst out into rough, helpless giggles even while his eyes burned with tears beneath the blindfold, hiccuping and helpless.

“Fuck, Clint,” Phil said, and he slotted his own cock alongside Clint’s for a moment, rutting them together a little and pulling another sobbing giggle out of him; Phil was well on the way to hard again, too, hot and silky. “Can you feel what it does to me, seeing you like this, in my hands like this, letting me have you any way I like? I want you to get me ready and then I’m going to fuck you again, sweetheart, I’m going to make you come apart around me.”

Clint couldn’t talk, too busy crying and laughing and shaking, so he nodded his head, so vigorously he almost knocked the blindfold loose and had to stop.

“Shhh,” Phil crooned. “Shh, yes, it’s all right, baby. I’m going to take such good care of you.” He gave Clint’s hip a final affectionate pat, then moved to one side, leaving his hand on Clint the whole time.

“Can you get up for me?” he asked. “I’d like you on your hands and knees if you can manage it.”

Clint nodded, still trying to get his breathing under control. Phil steadied him as he rolled onto his side and then onto his knees, warm hands tracing over the lines of Clint’s body.

“I’m moving around in front of you,” Phil said, the mattress dipping as he moved. Clint could feel him slip in between Clint and the headboard of the bed, and then he ran warm fingers around the blindfold, making sure the straps weren’t too tight. “How are you doing, sweetheart? Settled a little?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, butting his head forward into Phil’s body. Mmmm, chest hair. Phil took the unspoken hint, scritching Clint’s scalp.

“Open your mouth, love,” Phil said, touching Clint’s jaw. Clint opened wide, letting Phil move him and then staying where he was put.

“Remember,” Phil said. “Poke my leg if you need to safeword while your mouth is full.”

Clint hummed his agreement, and Phil ruffled his hair affectionately as he slipped his cock between Clint’s lips. “Get me ready to fuck you, baby.”

Phil wasn’t quite hard yet; ordinarily, he wouldn’t be ready again so soon at all. Apparently Clint wasn’t the only one who was feeling a little sexually frustrated after their mission. He wondered if Phil had waited, too. It would take Phil a long time to come this time, he thought, and shuddered in nervous anticipation. Phil was still small enough that it was easy for Clint to work his way all the way down to the base, to nuzzle into the crinkled hair there and breathe in Phil-smell as he swallowed around his cock.

Time ran slow and sweet like honey as he sucked Phil softly, keeping his mouth wet and welcoming, not caring whether he was drooling on himself, or how he looked, or anything but the feel of Phil’s hands cradling his face, the sexy way Phil moaned under Clint’s tongue as his cock slowly got fat and stiff inside Clint’s mouth. Finally, Phil pulled away, holding Clint back with gentle hands when he tried to chase after him.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Phil said. “Remember, we’ve got something else planned.” He made a considering sort of noise, one that was familiar to Clint, equally as likely to mean “should we escape via the roofs or the sewers” as to mean “what position would be best for me to fuck you right now.”

“Stretch out a little, then lie on your back again,” Phil told him, shifting out of the way. Clint arched his back like a cat, leaning back into a stretch and hissing when the movement made the plug inside him nudge his prostate. Phil ran a soothing hand down Clint’s spine, then down between his cheeks to play with the end of the plug a little. “”You’ve still got me inside,” he said, his voice dark and pleased. “Still wet and full with my come, and I’m not done with you yet.”

Clint practically threw himself over onto his back, eager to get what Phil’s tone was promising him. “Please, sir. I’m ready.”

“Lift your hips.” Phil slid something under him, propping him up; a wedge-shaped, firm cushion that elevated his hips to a good level for fucking. Clint shivered in anticipation as Phil ran his hands over Clint’s spread thighs.

“I think I want a little more room,” Phil said. “Can you hold your legs open for me?”

_“Yes,”_ Clint said, grabbing at the backs of his own knees; this was great, this was gonna be so good, Phil only asked for that position when he really wanted to settle in and focus. Clint wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stand much more of Phil’s focus, honestly, but he couldn’t wait to try. He wanted Phil to take his time, after all, all the time he wanted; he wanted Phil to end the night feeling fucking _spectacular_.

He pulled his legs up and apart, leaving his ass and groin exposed, tilted by the cushion to be at the perfect angle for Phil to do whatever he pleased.

“You never stop being amazing,” Phil said, touching the straining muscles in the back of Clint’s thigh. “A gift. Sometimes I wake up and think I must have dreamed you.” He pulled the plug out a little ways before letting go, letting Clint’s ass pull it back in.

“Maybe you should go ahead and open your present, then,” Clint said, his voice strained from the way he was lying, practically folded in half.

Phil chuckled. “Anything for you,” he said, playful but with a core of sincerity that made Clint swallow hard. Phil drew the plug out in a long smooth motion, making Clint whimper when the widest point breached him.

“Oh, _look_ at you,” Phil said. He traced Clint’s hole with a finger, almost shockingly good even though he was still sore. “You’re still nice and open for me, baby. I don’t think I even need any more lube, you’re still so wet.” He didn’t make Clint wait any longer, just lined his cock up to Clint’s body and pushed in. He groaned as he bottomed out, a guttural noise of pleasure that raised goosebumps all down Clint’s arms.

“Fuck me,” Clint begged. “Sir, please.”

“Anything,” Phil said again, taking hold of Clint’s hips. “Anything.”

He didn’t go as hard as he had the first time, but it felt even more intense; even though Clint’s hole was relaxed and sloppy with lube and come already, he was also sensitized and sore from the plug and the edging and the overstimulation, so that each of Phil’s steady, solid thrusts was a wave of bliss and ache all twisted up together. Phil kept his pace even, like he could just stay there fucking Clint all night, and Clint couldn’t tell if he wanted it to never end or to end right away. He gave himself up to it, let himself drift through the darkness on the sensations, everything going a little dreamy and swimmy and beautiful. He was making sounds, he thought? He was crying maybe, but also making high, lost little noises every time Phil’s cock pushed past his prostate, _uh uh uh_. Phil was amazing and Phil was saying wonderful things to him and Phil was everything in the entire world, fucking another impossible orgasm closer and closer to Clint with every thrust but never quite tipping him over.

Clint teetered on the brink of coming for an unknowable time, not long and very long. He was so slicked-up that Phil’s thrusts made wet slurping noises. Instead of seeming silly, they just made the whole thing hotter, added one more sign of how completely Clint had given himself over to be owned and used and cherished, to have his body pushed to heights of pleasure he could never reach alone. Phil was everywhere, his taste on Clint’s tongue and his hands on Clint’s body and his voice in Clint’s ears, stuffing Clint’s hole with his cock, over and over, steady as a machine as Clint trembled and keened.

Finally, Phil slowed his pace a little, dragging his length over Clint’s prostate hard, making Clint’s muscles lock up with how near he was to coming. He was desperate now, his voice coming out in broken little panting pleas.

“Having trouble, baby?” Phil asked, his voice gentle even as he tweaked one of Clint’s sore nipples, sending a jolt of delicious hurt through him.

“Please,” Clint gasped. “I, I can’t.”

Another one of those slow, fierce thrusts, and Clint let out a thin, thready cry. “Would you like to come now, Clint? I’m going to keep fucking you until I’m satisfied, either way.”

Clint groaned. He couldn’t imagine how that would feel, but that didn’t _matter_ because that was _later_ and he needed to come now, he—“need it, sir, please, Phil I need it I need it I need—”

“Shhhh,” a warm finger laid across his lips, and Clint kissed it, helplessly, his mouth still forming the words. “I promised you I’d always give you what you need, Clint, and I will.”

The lube bottle clicked again, and then on the next long thrust Phil wrapped slick fingers tight around Clint’s cock and jacked him in time to his fucking. Clint lasted through maybe four thrusts, his body straining and toes curled, and then that was _it,_ he was gone again, whiting out with pleasure that burned through him, making everything clean and sweet and beautiful.

When Clint’s body stopped twitching and the rushing in his ears quieted, he realized that Phil was still fucking him, harder now, letting his own thrusts push Clint’s softening come-slick cock through Phil’s tight fist.

“There you are,” Phil said, and his voice, _oh,_ his voice was so warm and proud; it was like cinnamon rolls right out of the oven, it was like blankets and rain outside the window, it was the best thing ever in the history of ears.

“Sir,” Clint mumbled through his dopey grin.

“There wasn’t very much, that time,” Phil said, with a twist of his hand around Clint’s cock that made him whine. “I think I’ve fucked all the come right out of you. But there’s enough to help keep you nice and slippery while I finish.”

“…Close?” Clint asked. Words were elusive just then, his brain awash in a soup of feel-good chemicals and mostly flitting between _yes_ and _ow_ and back to _yes._

“Mm, I’m getting there,” Phil said, his pace never wavering. “You were so beautiful just now, coming for me.”

“Love you.”

Phil groaned, shoving himself the rest of the way in harder than he had been. Clint realized, distantly, that he was still holding his legs open, and tried to pull them a little farther apart.

“Come on,” he begged. It was good but so _much_ , his ass was so sore and Phil was so big. Phil needed to come.

Maybe Phil’s desire finally overcame his self-control, or maybe he just took pity on Clint’s poor ass, but he sped his pace, grunting as their hips slapped together. He kept pumping Clint’s soft cock with his own come as his pace finally stuttered and his cock jerked, his release hot and liquid inside Clint’s body.

Phil stayed still for a moment, his cock slowly softening, his hand still tight around Clint. _“Fuck,”_ he breathed, finally pulling out and soothing Clint’s little whimper of loss. He eased Clint’s legs back down to the bed. “Stretch out your arms and legs, baby, you’ve been holding that position for a long time.” He traced over Clint’s balls and down to his hole, circling it.

“I’ve fucked your hole all out,” he said, his voice almost shaking. “It’s all red and loose and puffy.” He dipped two fingers inside, curving them so they nudged his prostate again, and Clint yelped as he drew them slowly out, pushing a gush of semen and lube to spill from Clint’s hole and trickle wetly between his cheeks. “You’re wrecked, baby, so beautiful and amazing, thank you for letting me give you so much tonight, thank you.” He kept rubbing at Clint’s hole, just playing with it, pushing his fingers in and rubbing them around, telling Clint how much he loved how sloppy and used it was.

Eventually, it went from feeling good-sore to feeling sore-good, and then there was a stroke that was just _sore,_ and Clint arched away from the stimulation, gasping. “Yellow,” he yelped, and Phil pulled back immediately, resting his hands on Clint’s thighs.

“Of course,” Phil soothed. “You finished, love? Had all you can take for tonight?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint managed.

“You did _so well_ ,” Phil said. “You were so good, you were perfect for me. I’ve never had it so good, Clint.” He stroked the skin under his hands, tender and careful. “I love you so much. What do you need from me now?”

Clint reached out clumsily, making grabby hands in Phil’s direction. He was shaky, trembling all over from sensory overload. “C’mere.” He should probably have said for Phil to clean him up, but fuck that; he wanted cuddles, wanted to wrap himself up in Phil like a blanket and never let go.

Phil stretched out next to Clint, body pressed against his side in a long warm line, and gathered him into his arms. Clint curled up small, huddling into Phil’s chest, nosing against his skin and breathing in his smell, traces of cologne and fresh sweat. Phil’s hands were busy, stroking Clint’s back and carding through his wet hair, and he kept leaning down to kiss whichever parts of Clint he could reach.

“Do you want me to take your blindfold off now, sweetheart?”

Clint thought about it, then shook his head. He wasn’t ready to leave the warm dark yet, to pull his focus back from the soft coziness of their entwined bodies. It was hard to even think, honestly; all he wanted was to lie in Phil’s embrace, under his loving touch, and let himself bask in how good everything felt.

Phil petted and cuddled Clint until he stopped trembling, murmuring praise and silly affection all the while. When Clint finally stirred, stretching his limbs out a little and easing a kink out of his hip, Phil stroked affectionately over his arm, a little faster than before, a rousing touch instead of a calming one. “Ready to clean up now?”

“Yeah,” Clint decided. He was starting to feel a little sticky, and the parts of him that Phil wasn’t touching were cold.

“Blindfold first,” Phil said. “Close your eyes for me, it’ll be bright.”

Clint closed his eyes, and he felt Phil gently removing the blindfold, lightening the darkness as some of the light shone through his closed lids. “Oh, sweetheart,” Phil said, a strange tremor in his voice, and he traced gently under Clint’s eye with a finger. “You cried.”

“Good cry,” Clint promised.

Phil kissed the tear tracks, whisper-soft. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Can you open your lovely eyes for me?”

Clint opened his eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the light bit by bit. It was almost weird to see again after so long, but at least the view was good. Phil had turned the lamp down low, and he looked amazing, bent over Clint in the soft gold light. He was flushed, rumpled and come-streaked and sweaty, his body lax and easy, his blue eyes bright with tears of his own. The tension and worry of the mission had melted away as if they’d never existed, and Clint couldn’t hold back a smug, self-congratulatory smile, because mission fucking accomplished, Clint Barton: excellent boyfriend.

They stayed there for another little while, just smiling dopily at one another and trading kisses, until Phil finally moved enough to notice a patch of gunk drying in his happy trail. He made a hilarious face at the sensation, like a cat getting sprayed with a water bottle. He pulled away, leaving Clint’s skin all cold where he wasn’t touching anymore, and got a little unsteadily to his feet. Clint pouted at him, making an unhappy noise and getting another kiss for his pains.

“I’ll be right back, love,” Phil promised, and Clint sighed but waved him off with an uncontrolled hand. He kind of zoned out while Phil was gone, staring off into space and just enjoying the endorphin buzz. The bed shifted under Phil’s weight when he finally came back, and Clint turned his head toward him, grinning.

“Hey,” he said, trying to waggle his eyebrows.

Phil smiled at him like he was adorable. “Hi,” he said, taking a hot damp cloth and wiping the sweat and tears off Clint’s face. It felt so good, Clint chuckled to himself, and Phil’s smile got even brighter, more delighted. “Still feeling good, baby?”

“Soooooo good,” Clint declared, trying to throw out an arm to illustrate, but only succeeding in sprawling out on the bed like a starfish. He was all floppy, drifty and dreamy and happy; little puffs of laughter kept sneaking out of him, not really because of anything being funny but just because he felt so good, and Phil was there with him and he’d made Phil feel good, and they had like two whole days off work to spend together in Phil’s beautiful private asshole-free apartment. Well. Almost asshole-free. Metaphorically asshole-free. He and Phil still had assholes. Obviously.

“Something funny?” Phil asked indulgently, as he wiped off Clint’s belly.

“We’re all by ourselves with our assholes,” Clint told him.

Phil laughed, and it sounded like, like something really good. Angels. Or puppies. Angels who were puppies. Puppies who were angels? Like _Dog Cops_ , only in heaven. “Yeah,” Phil said. “It’ll be nice to have some time alone together.” He tapped Clint’s thigh. “Spread, please.”

Clint opened his legs further, hissing when Phil’s cloth brushed his over-sensitized dick. It was gonna be at _least_ twelve hours before he’d want anymore action there; his body was just _done_.

“I know,” Phil said, patting his hip. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’ll be fast.” He was as good as his word, quickly cleaning the sticky patches of come and lube from Clint’s groin, gentle enough that it only caused Clint a little discomfort. He folded the cloth over to expose a clean section before moving down to Clint’s ass, and Clint sighed; it felt good to be clean, but there was a part of him that loved how dirty and slutty and owned he felt when he was so full of Phil’s come that it got everywhere. Maybe sometime they could do the plug thing again, but for longer. It probably wasn’t practical, but Clint loved the thought of Phil keeping him tied to the bed for, like, a whole weekend, fucking him over and over and plugging his come up inside him in between rounds. Mmmm.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Phil asked, tossing the dirty cloth into the hamper from across the room: hot.

“Tell you later, darlin’,” Clint mumbled. Talking was too much energy just then. Phil just beamed at him, like the sad wrung-out puddle of archer in his bed was the best thing he’d ever seen.

“Do you think you can get up for a minute?” Phil asked. “Just a minute, so we can get under the covers?”

“Kay,” Clint said, and let Phil corral his noodley limbs enough to get him standing next to the bed. Phil stripped off the sheets and towels he’d laid over the covers, which were quite thoroughly defiled, and peeled back the fluffy duvet and soft sheets.

“Go on, get in,” Phil told him, and Clint snuggled in under the sheets, which were cool and delicious on his naked skin. Once he’d gotten himself arranged to his satisfaction, he made grabby hands at Phil again until he joined him in bed and made a space for Clint to nestle in against his side.

Clint pillowed his head in his favorite spot in the hollow of Phil’s shoulder and sighed happily. His entire body felt like pancake syrup, hot and slow and sweet, and the solid strength of Phil was the perfect anchor for his dreamy lassitude. “Thanks, Phil,” he said. “That… that was perfect, it was exactly what I needed today.”

Phil made a tiny noise, then cleared his throat. “I think I ought to be thanking you,” he said. “You did so well, Clint. Thank you for allowing me to push you so far.”

“Thank us both for being sex gods,” Clint said, yawning. “Damn, I feel amazing. This is so good. I want to come home with you after all the missions.”

Phil’s hand, idly tracing over the muscles in Clint’s arm, went still, and he seemed to hold his breath for a long moment.

“What?” Clint said, “What’d I say?”

Phil took a deep breath, jostling Clint’s head. “Are you saying that you… what are you saying?”

Clint replayed his words in his head. “Oh.” He’d been thinking about asking Phil for a while, but he hadn’t meant to just up and say it like that. He’d had a plan, there’d been dinner involved and shit, but he was kind of stream-of-consciousness just then. Oh, well. “I want us to live together,” Clint said. “Can we live together?”

Phil’s arm tightened around him, a sudden squeeze, and then Phil was turning over to face him, his lips trembling and his eyes shining. “There is nothing in the world I’d like more,” he said, and then he kissed Clint, long and wet and tender kisses over and over as he held Clint safe and warm and loved, and after every one he whispered _yes._


End file.
